A Coat of Gold
by Blood on my Machete
Summary: Tybolt Lannister. Lord of Castamere. Heir to Casterly Rock. Son of the Imp. He thought life was going to be easy, but the Wheel keeps turning, spurring us all to our inevitable fates. In the first book he faces an upheaval of his life, loss, magic and impending war, caught up in the Game of Thrones. First book in the Rains of Castamere Trilogy.
1. Chapter 1

**"That's Jaime Lannister, the Queen's Twin Brother. And Tybolt, the Imp's Son."**

Theirs had been a dreary path.

It wound from the Neck; the swamps, snakes and sullied glares from the crannogmen of Greywater Watch, through the frozen plains of the North, and twisted through the woods and wide open spaces of barren wilderness, to the hill upon which stood the ancient castle of Winterfell, the seat of House Stark; Kings of Winter, Lords Paramount and Wardens of the North, and most importantly, closest friends of their slim and delicate king. The journey had gotten harder as it got colder, colder until the sun itself was no true aid; they had to rely upon their packed furs and padded doublets. Yet Tybolt was certain the riders on their horses had it even worse.

That was not to say he would not join them in an instant; no, were it his own choice he would have been breathing in the bracing Northern air, feeling the wind rushing over his shoulders as the sense of adventure filled his short body and his stallion's muscles flexed powerfully between his legs. He had gotten a taste at first, had ridden with his uncle knight past a glen or two before his father asked for his company in the wheelhouse. _Most like to end his 'debate' with Cersei. She always did have a soft spot for me. Though I suffer in his place, now that the Imp has buggered off to the nearest whorehouse._ The thought filled Tybolt with distaste.

Though having just passed his fourteenth nameday, almost a man grown, with a man's needs, Tybolt Lannister could honestly say he had never lowered himself to the Halfman's standards. His grandfather had thoroughly whipped any thought of that particular iniquity from his mind; Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock was not having that sort of behaviour from his grandson. Tybolt had smiled when Tywin had privately expressed some small measure of relief that his heir would not turn the castle and lands that House Lannister had proudly held for centuries into a brothel filled with drunken scoundrels and whores with more bastards in their bellies than those of King's Landing, or Dorne. Oh, Tywin still held a fierce determination to have Ser Jaime stripped of the Kingsguard so he could have the heir he had always wanted; Tybolt was his contingency.

"Ah, shit!"

The wheel axle had broken again. Tybolt let out an irritated sigh as he guided a waking little Prince Tommen out into the light, his aunt and her daughter behind them. A boy of ten, Tommen held an innocent naïveté that Tybolt found beautiful, repulsive and stupid in equal measure; his little cousin would rather roll on the ground and pet kittens on the head than harm anything in the world, and wished no harm upon the foulest of monsters.

"It's alright, Tommen," Tybolt soothed, squeezing the little prince's hand. "They just need to fix the carriage wheels."

Tommen was, in his status of disturbed sleep, upset. "Aww!" he whined, giving his cousin his best impression of a doe's green eyes. "Again?"

"Again," Tybolt confirmed, offering a quiet smile. "Still, we're almost there; you see there?" He pointed to a black speck on a far hill in the distance. Tommen nodded. "That's Winterfell. And no, we may not ride ahead." Tommen pouted childishly, if there was any other way, and shut up. Tybolt ruffled his cousin's blonde hair with his free hand and grinned at the yelp of surprise before patting him on the shoulder.

A few minutes passed, punctuated by Robert's incessant shouting and complaining that they should just demolish the wheelhouse and his wife and children travel on horseback, and the transport was fixed. Once they were back inside (Cersei had asked Tybolt to join them again) and the horses were trotting forward once more, Myrcella decided to strike up a conversation. "Ty, how is Castamere coming on?"

Tybolt straightened up. Myrcella shared the golden hair and emerald eyes of her brothers, eyes which now sparkled with curiosity. He fought the urge to grin widely at her inquisitive nature (at least, in front of the queen, who quietly berated her daughter for her informality), opting instead to nod politely and answer, "Very well, princess. The walls are rebuilt, the roof and furniture replaced. All I need is that supply of ironwood and some good, sturdy Northern rock, to add the finishing touches, and to fortify the outer wall. That's why I've come." To help defend against attack, Tybolt had opted to build a second wall around Castamere, with an opening at a different point than the main holdfast, so as to make it more difficult to penetrate the castle. This was further compounded by the scorpions and cauldrons placed at differing intervals along the walls. The cauldrons would be filled with pitch and set alight, the hook-and-chain design allowing it to tip over the edge of the wall without losing the cauldron itself. Used properly, the number of foes they had to meet in battle would be diminished.

"I still don't understand why you must oversee the delivery yourself," Queen Cersei interrupted, frowning. "That is why you have subordinates."

Tybolt nodded. "Yes," he acquiesced, "yet I am unsure of whom I should trust, your grace. These are valuable products outside the North; part of the shipment could 'go missing'. I feel safer making sure of it."

"True."

"Where are you going for them?" Myrcella asked, cocking her head to the side.

Tybolt swallowed and scratched at his finger. "Well, Ironrath has the greatest supply of Ironwood in the known world, and I'll be seeing off the rock at White Harbour." When Myrcella scrunched her nose in a most unladylike fashion he smiled. "Ironrath is the castle of House Forrester, bannermen to House Glover, remember them?" The princess nodded. "And White Harbour's the largest city in the North; it's the seat of House Manderley." Tybolt had taken the time on the journey to memorise Northern politics and structure.

Most Northern lords were loyal to the bone to the Starks of Winterfell, save House Bolton and their vassals, who had been beaten into submission to end the millennia-old rivalry and struggle for power between the wolf and flayed man. Being the only kingdom that had not been truly conquered by the Andals or the Dragons, save Dorne, there was much tension with Southron customs, although some traditions, such as guest right, were shared between the cultures. A rigid system of honour and justice was upheld from Deepwood Motte to the Last Hearth, though this sometimes broiled over in personal grudges and extreme vengeance.

With the Starks' reputation for cold blood and hot heads, there had been mutterings of secession after Robert's Rebellion. Thankfully, with Lord Eddard's cool manner and willingness for diplomacy the North's anger at the murders of Lord Rickard and Brandon had soothed somewhat. Still, some yet muttered that the North would be better off with its sovereignty regained, although they respected and even loved their Lord Paramount; it made Tybolt nervous.

"Can I come with you?" Tommen asked eagerly, Myrcella's eyes wide with hope. Tybolt shifted awkwardly in his seat as Cersei told them no. _They are so desperate to see something beside stone and sun. Just like me_. Tybolt shared his great-uncle Gerion's love of adventure; some days at Casterly Rock - when he could get away from Lord Tywin's tutoring - he would scale the wall and stand at the precipice of the cliff. With the fall at his feet and the wind in his hair he would look out at the sun as it set, longing to see some of the world before he died - the bountiful, beautiful hills of the Reach, rolling as far as the eye could see, the Citadel in Oldtown with all the vast knowledge in the Seven Kingdoms, the sandy plains of Dorne, the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, the Pyramids of Meereen, all the way up the Shivering Sea to the smoking ruins of the Valyrian Freehold. _But grandfather wanted my mind on my duties, so I stayed,_ he thought sourly.

When he snapped out of his thoughts, he realised the Queen was speaking with Jaime through the window and his cousins were leaning in intently. Well, Tommen was already slumped against him so he had just tightened his grip around Tybolt's arm, while Myrcella's golden brow was raised. He sighed and lowered his voice. _I can hardly crush that hope._ "Tell you what," he whispered, "If you keep as well-behaved here as always, and don't cause any trouble with our hosts, I'll talk to your father, ask him." Their faces lightened up. "I can't promise he'll say yes; your mother might make him say no, and you know her position." He did not like to talk badly of his aunt; she tried to ignore who he was, but he could not hide the truth from them either. Quickly he leaned back in his seat as the Queen and Ser Jaime finished their conversation.

Cersei seemed oblivious to her children's plotting, but when Uncle Jaime ruffled Tybolt's hair through the window, the little lord knew he had his approval.

When they neared Winterfell he got out and onto his own horse, stopping to pay respects to his royal relatives, bowing to Tommen and kissing the air above Cersei and Myrcella's hands, though with his cousins he kept the mood light by grinning at Tommen and cheekily pressing his lips to Myrcella's hand before flourishing away with a leap off - while the wheelhouse was still in motion. As they giggled he mounted Brightroar and nodded to them, smirking cockily and riding ahead to just behind his father.

Or at least he would have if Tyrion had not slinked away from the party. _Most like to the brothel. Could he not control himself for one hour? Just one? Is that really too much to ask?_ Tybolt supposed it must be so - Grandfather had always taught him about his father's slavery to his more base desires. _To hear Lord Tywin tell it, the most use Father has been was when he cleaned the drains and cisterns of the Rock. Apparently the shit has never flowed better._ But Tybolt cared little for well-behaved shit; _he_ would be the heir to Casterly Rock, never matter the Imp's protesting about his so-called _rights_. _Yes,_ that _will teach the drunken fool._ Regardless, with a smug satisfaction he took Tyrion's place as representative of the Westerlands, positioned just behind the royal stallions and just before the wheelhouse. It was a better spot than any other _minor lord_ could hope for, sat amidst the royal family.

The lion banner of Lannister snapped over Tybolt as he passed through the gate and into the wolves' den, inhaling all the scents of Winterfell. The smoke and earth from the blacksmith, freshly-baked bread, the bitter tang of a thousand swords permeating the air, even the musky stench of shit and piss from the stables. It all combined to produce a smell that clogged Tybolt's nose and made him want to gag. _I love it._ The cold of the Northern air lingered within the walls, but something seemed to mute it. Tybolt had read about the hot springs beneath the castle running through its walls in pipes meant to spread throughout the building.

 _But how does the water stay hot the entire length and width of the castle? And how could it be expanded to work for Southron castles? If all one needs to do is light a fire under the pipe... no, no - it would need constant watchmen and multiple braziers set at strategic points: too inefficient! Far too inefficient! But perhaps if..._

He was yanked from his thoughts when he spotted a tiny soldier in a sable cloak watched them hungrily from his perch upon a cart. _A dwarf, maybe? But why..._ He shook his head. _Never mind._ Regardless, when the soldier clambered down and rushed off through the gates he caught sight of dark hair peeking out from under the helmet. _A girl?_ Once he trotted into the main courtyard he spotted her amongst the crowd. _Second from the left at the front, dark hair, grey eyes: a Stark._ He found himself snickering when he saw the way she and the boy next to her - presumably her little brother - looked at the party: like they were the oddest, most wonderful thing they had ever seen. They were not alone; the elder girl, tall, with red hair and blue eyes was sharing a wide smile with the Crown Prince Joffrey, who looked like a cat with a canary. Suddenly ill, Tybolt climbed down from Brightroar, absentmindedly patting the stallion's nose as the beast snuffed and nudged his face, as if to say _cheer up._ The young lord smiled and turned to the family.

The King, a great wobbling mass that had once been, perhaps not the most skilled, but definitely the fiercest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, had marched over to Lord Eddard and motioned for him to rise. Tybolt stroked Brightroar's mane and when King Robert chose his first words to his oldest friend in over seven years to be "You've got fat," he knew he was only one amongst many to be putting his fist to his mouth. A slight snort escaped him, but when Cersei's eyes turned to him he cleared his throat quietly, turning away to see Robert and Eddard laughing and embracing like brothers. Over the chatter he heard the soldier girl - Arya, he supposed - from earlier ask her sister, "Where's the Imp?" and his stomach lurched.

 _Well, if that didn't ruin my appetite..._ When Sansa told her to shut up he nodded imperceptibly, though he knew no one would see. The scowl lifted, however, when Myrcella nudged his arm and smiled - Tyrion was her favourite uncle, he knew, but although she enjoyed his antics she could see her cousin's distress over it; a fact he was grateful for. Tapping her elbow in thanks he focused on young Brandon, who grinned when the King told him he would be a soldier, eyes shining in a way that reminded him of Tommen.

"That's Jaime Lannister, the Queen's twin brother. And Tybolt, the Imp's son."

The scowl was back, along with Sansa's begging for her to _please shut up_ , and so Tybolt harnessed Brightroar - who blathered quietly at him - to a nearby post at the stable before hearing King Robert demand that Lord Eddard take him to the crypts to 'pay his respects'. _Blabber over the dead girl's corpse, you mean. And one that was as disgusted by you as any, to hear people tell it._ It was as much a disrespect to Lyanna Stark as it was to his own wife, pining after her fifteen years after her death. Tybolt glared when Robert ignored Cersei's protests and merely motioned to his friend. Lord Eddard, seemingly uncomfortable, nodded apologetically to the Queen and followed King Robert into the crypts of the Kings of Winter.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya asked her sister again, who this time did not even bother to answer. Tybolt let out a deep breath and straightened up as Cersei strode over, humiliated.

"Where is our brother," she muttered, before turning to Ser Jaime. "Go and find the little beast." Tybolt started off with Jaime, but stopped when his aunt touched his shoulder, and smiled. "There's no need for you to bother yourself with him, nephew," she said quietly, sympathetically. "Although I would appreciate it if you helped Myrcella and Tommen to their chambers, and stayed with them until the feast."

Tybolt had no reason to decline, save to find his way to his own rooms, but that could wait. At any rate, refusal was impossible; as she taught him long ago, a request from the Queen is no request at all. _And she is my aunt, they my cousins; one always aids their family whenever possible._ Another lesson Cersei had taught him growing up. Therefore, he did not even think about declining.

"Of course, your grace," he said clearly, bowing his head, before turning to Tommen and Myrcella. "My prince, princess, when you are ready."

Tommen shook on the spot, giggling at the formality, while Myrcella stood a tad more regally, though her lips quivered, eyes glittered. "I do believe we are ready now, Lord Lannister," she declared haughtily, a little laugh escaping her. "Come, little brother." She took Tommen's hand and strutted off into the castle, Tybolt shadowing them with a hand on the hilt of his blade.


	2. Chapter 2

**"The Wine? I Never Pissed in It, Promise."**

Tybolt left Jeyne Poole talking to Sansa and Myrcella at the table with his customary flourishing turn, the blood-red sable cloak catching on his hand before he shook it off. The steward's daughter was not an entirely unacceptable match, in truth, for a minor lord, though a Westerling of the Crag or the like was more appropriate, and would increase his standing in the Westerlands, or Randyll Tarly's daughter in Horn Hill; that would grant him status in the Reach. Higher still, he was heir apparent to Casterly Rock, the future head of the main branch of the richest, most feared Great House in the Seven Kingdoms, which set expectations even higher. He would most likely be betrothed to Stannis' grayscale-ridden daughter Shireen, as mutual relatives through the royalty, or Arianne Martell of Dorne, to help soothe relations with Prince Doran. If he were lucky, he would be stuck with Myrcella - someone he actually knew and got along with would be a great relief.

To add to that, he just did not like her. Not that poor Jeyne was unattractive, but she was just... so _boring_. The girl swooned and dreamed as if she had been plucked from the background crowd in a poorly-written play, and while fairly decent company she liked to look down on people, even those above her station. The best example he could think of was her best friend's sister; Arya and Sansa did not get along, so Jeyne went overboard with talking behind her back and calling her awful names. To put it simply, the escort chosen for him tonight was insipid.

 _And now look, here I am ranting to myself in the corner._ Tybolt cleared his throat and walked over to the future Lord Stark. _I've spent too much time in leisure; Grandfather would be disappointed._

Robb Stark was having a drinking competition with Theon Greyjoy. _Two for one. Excellent._ Tybolt sat down and poured himself a mug of wine, grinning as Theon slammed his to the table. "Another one!"

"Mind if I join in?" Tybolt asked loudly over the music and clamour, and felt something in his chest spread its wings when Robb patted him on the shoulder, laughing drunkenly. "I'll take that as a yes, then."

Theon took the pitcher from Tybolt and filled his and Robb's cups. "Alright, Stark; let's see if the little lion can keep up!" Tybolt protested that he was not little, but downed his wine. A shoot of something filled his head, and suddenly he was reminded of the reason he hated his father's drunken state. Part of him, after that one cup, told him to put it down. _Oh, come on - you just asked to join in with their competition. You're going to back out because of that dwarf?_

He downed another with the elder boys. And another. And another.

"You know, Lannister," Robb admitted, swaying in his seat. "I thought all of you were like the Queen."

Tybolt was confused, and leaned in. Robb's face waved and wobbled before him. "What d'you mean 'like her'?" If this Northern shit was about to talk badly about _his aunt_...

"Y'know," Theon answered for his friend, who was drinking. "All... frigid, like. And not like that," he back-pedalled, hands up as Tybolt scowled. "Y'know... like she wants to strangle everyone, for no reason."

Tybolt's first instinct was to reach over Robb and strangle _him_ , but looked up to the dais to see Cersei's disdainful glare at everything around her, especially Robert. _She is not- ah, fair enough._ He turned to Greyjoy and shrugged; so Stark was wrong, so what? He still wanted to punch the bastard, though. "Mmm... maybe," he admitted, before a cheeky grin stretched his mouth. "You should see my grandfather." He giggled as Robb refilled the cups.

"What?"

Tybolt scrunched up his nose and put on his gruffest voice. "We're Lannisters, and Lannisters don't act like fools!" The three laughed into their cups, and Tybolt sniffed. _Glad he's not here now. Old bastard'd tan my hide._ "So, my Lord of Stark," he began, hiccuping. Robb raised his eyebrows. "While we're all good and sloshed-" he hiccuped again, "-how should our future - _hic -_ begin?"

Robb frowned, a red curl falling between his eyes, before he tried to brush it away. He failed. "What you mean?" he asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

Tybolt sipped some more wine, enjoying the smooth lilt of grapes and wondering for all the world why he had not tried this sooner. A picture of the Imp flashed in his mind; he scowled, but hid it from his new... friend? Ally? _No, not yet._ "What _do_ I mean," he corrected, "and I mean... this." He waved his arm around the hall, grinning at Robb's frown as he hiccuped again. "This!"

"What's this?" Robb asked loudly. Theon giggled as he preoccupied himself with a passing servant girl.

" _Hic_ \- The West! The North!" Tybolt snickered. "Relations! Politics! Lots of big words!"

"Ahhhh!" Robb smiled understandingly, before scowling, blue eyes dulled, but flashing with irritation. "Why didn't you just say that?" He drank some more, and tried once again to push the increasing amount of hair away. He failed. Tybolt did not catch what he muttered next, but caught the words, "Lannisters... things complicated... too drunk for this... Father's business... had worse company..."

Tybolt smirked and swayed upon hearing the last part. "'Course there's worse company! _Hic!_ You could be drinking with my cousin," he pointed out, nodding to Joffrey grinning at Sansa, who blushed and went back to gossiping with Jeyne and fawning over Myrcella, the poor thing. _No idea..._ He supposed maybe he should tell. It was what friends did, correct? Looked out for each other's family? But then, Joffrey was _his_ family, loathe as he was to admit it. But then there was... _Ah, piss on it - way too drunk for this._ Instead he looked at Robb, who scowled again.

"Don't like him," Stark confessed. "No offence." Tybolt shrugged. Robb smiled and drunk some more. "Sorry, but I just do not like his face. It's all-"

"I will _never_ father a bastard!" Someone shouted angrily from the bottom of the servants' table, near the fire. " _Never_!" A boy with dark curls and grey eyes, like Arya's, shoved himself away from the table and, upon spotting people's eyes, flushed embarrassedly and ran from the hall. He bumped into a servant girl on the way out. The man he had shouted at stood awkwardly before walking over to Lord Stark. His younger brother Benjen, Tybolt supposed, from the hair and eyes. _But isn't he a Crow...?_

"Ah, Jon- wait... Uncle Benjen," Robb breathed, downing his cup and patting Tybolt on the shoulder. "Need to see him." He patted Theon's shoulder to announce his departure, and left.

Greyjoy turned around, looking around. "What?" he asked Tybolt, who nodded absentmindedly to Robb, who was talking to Eddard and Benjen. "Oh- hey, wait- ow!" He began nursing his stinging cheek as the servant girl straightened her hair and dress before marching off. "Strong hand," Theon admitted. "Just caught me off guard, though. Never would've gotten me if I wasn't looking away!"

Tybolt laughed mockingly. "Aye, and the moon shines from a dragon's arse. She must've caught a look at your pecker; tiny thing could've terrified the poor girl."

Theon sneered, filling his cup. "Oy; it's bigger than your cock, Lannister!"

"You spend a lot of time thinking about my cock, Greyjoy?" Tybolt snickered, before frowning into his cup. _Empty. But why is it empty...? I haven't drunk any of it, or much. Or did I? No, no - I didn't drunk much. Wait: how does the stuff go into the thing again...? And where is the thing, anyway? The other thing; the thing with the stuff so I can find out how it goes into this thing again?_

He found himself there an age later, still frowning into the cup. He blinked. _Ah, wait:_ that's _how it goes. Right. Was a bit worried, there._

Theon's hand waved in front of him. "You alright?" The squid sounded concerned, although that may have just been the wine. "You looked like a lion took a piss in your cup."

Perhaps they would have gotten into a conversation, had Robb not chosen that very moment to come back. The Stark heir slumped between them, oblivious, before snatching Theon's drink and downing it. To his credit, however, he refilled it and gave it back.

Tybolt filled his own, nudging Robb's arm. "Something up?" he asked slowly, nodding for no real reason. Theon nodded as well, patting his friend on the back.

Robb looked halfway to telling the two to piss off, but winced. After a moment of determined frowning, he sighed. "Jon's asking to join the Watch again," he mumbled, though both heard it.

Theon rolled his eyes at the Stark bastard's melodramatic exit, and Tybolt took in the information, his slightly sobered mind running it through. _Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard Stark, fathered during Robert's Rebellion. Shares Stark features to the point of absurdity, and his father's inherent gloomy attitude. Muttered amongst some to be 'more Stark' than his brother; membership of the Night's Watch would eliminate potential threat to Robb's succession and rule. Still, even without joining the Watch troubles between the two seem unlikely. Rushing to join the Wall: curious. Sense of duty, perhaps? Or ambition? Or searching for a place in the world? Personality unknown._

Tybolt did not know enough Jon Snow to make any judgements, and so simply nodded again. "You'll miss him," he said, hiding his guesswork.

Robb nodded gloomily. "Never been without him," he confessed. "Don't know what I'd do without him, really." He seemed to catch himself, and went quiet.

"He's family," Tybolt told him, hand on his shoulder. "Of course you'll miss him. He's your little brother, really, isn't he?"

Theon hummed in agreement, smiling so his friend could see. Still, when Tybolt glanced at him, he must have decided to lighten the mood up, in his way. "Hey, I don't think much will change for the ba... for him," he acquiesced at Robb's glare. "Same old moody prick, fighting and being on his own. All that'll really change for him ought to be the enemies: fighting Wildlings instead of us."

"'Suppose," Robb shrugged. Greyjoy smirked.

"Speaking of moody pricks..."

"Theon..."

"Snow won't be getting much use out of his!"

"Theon!"

Tybolt smiled at the squid's attempt at humour; at least he was trying. The Lord of Castamere looked around to find little Arya Stark scooping up food on her spoon. _What is she up to now?_ He followed her gaze to her pretty sister, chippering away with Jeyne. _Oh, no..._

He remained unsurprised when he heard the splat, and the gasp.

"Arya!" Sansa shrieked in shock, hand to her chest while Jeyne gave her a napkin. "Unbelievable... she ruins _everything_..." Arya must have heard, because she went red and scooped up some more.

"Uh-oh," Robb muttered. Tybolt glanced to find him sharing a look with his mother. Lady Catelyn, though smiling at her daughters, nodded to Arya as if to say, _'Well?'_ "I'll be back soon." Robb got to his feet, went to his sister (who slumped defeatedly), spun her around and frogmarched her to bed, grinning all the while.

Tybolt turned to Theon, and raised his now-full cup. "Shall we continue?"

"Why not?" The two clinked their glasses together and they each took a healthy mouthful.

Later, when he was admittedly well and drunk, Tybolt decided to head off to bed. Saying his goodbyes to Robb and Theon, he made his way, vision swaying, down the corridors of the castle. _Well, they're good company. Loud and brash, mayhaps, but good company._ Robb seemed, in his humble opinion, the sort of Lord Paramount Tybolt would like to do business with: honest, well-meaning, hard-working and he seemed to know what he was doing, and their mutual lack of actual experience would give them cause to help each other. The Northman's quick smiles, earnest attitude and sense of humour made him cheerful to be around, and Tybolt could not help but hope it led to an equally cheerful friendship; aside from the political side, he hoped to forge a good relationship with Robb himself.

Theon Greyjoy, on the other hand, was loudmouthed, arrogant, talked down to everyone and had an almost unnatural desire to be better than the people around him. It was a disease Tybolt had seen in many other lords and lordlings, especially Mace Tyrell and his sycophants, many of the Valelords... _and don't even get me started on the Lesser Lannisters. Ugh; by their attitude, one would think them the Lions of the Rock. Narrow-minded, self-centred, chest-puffing bastards._ Still, unlike most of them, Theon had an oppressive air about, depressed, even, that spoke volumes of his insecurity and fear of Lord Stark. _Or rather, fear of his father._ It was a badly-kept secret that having his last living son and heir hostage was not doing much to keep Lord Balon in check; ships and merchants still went missing on the east coast of the North, though none could prove it was the Ironborn. All in all, with his somewhat friendly attitude and dry wit, some confidence would go a long way to making him a decent friend, if a horrid ally. The Ironborn would never accept him back; he was 'tainted' by the ways of the 'greenlanders'. If Tybolt wanted an ally on the Iron Islands, he would be better served chasing after Asha Greyjoy or their uncle Victarion. _Gods help me if I have to go to the Exile for help._ The Crow's Eye could either help him; or stab him in the eye before pissing down his throat. Euron was like that.

Shaking the politics from his head, Tybolt lost his balance and slammed into the door. _Ah, bugger..._ When the door opened, he felt like either telling them to piss off or apologise for disturbing them - for all he knew they were 'busy'. That line of thought vanished, however, when little Arya Stark started giggling at him. _Okay, 'piss off' it is._ He opened his mouth to talk to her when she interrupted.

"Are you drunk?" she asked incredulously, in that way that meant they already knew. And of course she already knew; he had slammed into her door. Why would she not know? "Never mind," she muttered quickly. "Get in."

"I- I actually-" Tybolt was interrupted - again - when she yanked him in and closed the door. "... didn't mean to- _hic_..." The little Stark girl snickered and hopped onto her bed, looking at him curiously.

"How does it feel?" she asked, grey eyes glittering with mischief.

Tybolt closed his own eyes for a moment, trying to stop his mind melting. "Like, um..." He opened to see Stark's head cocked to the side. "Like you're really, really... dizzy."

"Dizzy?" Stark sounded unimpressed.

Tybolt nodded and smiled. "Hmm-hmm, but not the sick... sicky bit. Unless you drink a lot... like I did. But you don't really care, I don't think. Everything'll be alright," he finished, closing his eyes again. "Hmm-hmm... it'll all be alright." The rusted hinges creaked in the blackest shadows of his memory. _He's not here,_ Tybolt told himself. _It won't happen again. He's not here._ The familiar pain shot up from his ankles and down from his spine, gathering at the knot of his waist in the old overwhelming stabbing sensation. Suddenly, yet expectedly, he felt ill.

When Stark snorted and Tybolt opened his eyes, she was pouting, brow furrowed confusedly. "Then why do people drink it?" she asked, looking at him like he had all the answers in the world. Tybolt liked that. It took his mind off of...

Pride shooting through him, he shrugged. "Well, it's definitely not for the taste," he guessed, playing with the cup in his hands. "I mean, the stuff your family served tonight tastes alright, but according to Father most drink tastes like piss. Never tried it before."

"Drink or piss?"

"Neither." After a moment he grinned. "Want to try?" When she scowled he rolled his eyes and held out the cup. "The wine? I never pissed in it, promise."

After a second, if that, of hesitation, Stark snatched the cup from his hand, spilling some on the floor before downing it quickly. Admittedly, there was only a half-cup left. She scrunched up her nose like an ant had crawled up it and handed him the empty cup back. "Not bad," she admitted, "But not that good either." Her face brightened. "Tastes a bit like grapes, like we sometimes get from the Arbor."

Tybolt frowned at the empty cup - what was the point of giving him an empty cup? - and sat it on the table. "Does your father never let you try?" He had seen little of Lord Stark, but going by Robb's many cups and Sansa's single, he had assumed...

"No." Stark scowled again. "Bran neither. I mean, Sansa gets some, but she never lets me try. Not even Jon lets me try any; says it's 'up to Father'." She looked up at him curiously. "Wait, you said 'never tried it'. Are you not allowed either?"

Tybolt half-wanted to march from the room - though he would probably trip and fall - and half-wanted to just shut her down. But upon seeing the look the girl's eyes he sighed. Or maybe hiccuped. "No," he began slowly. "I just don't... never wanted to," he excused, though the look on Stark's face made him roll his eyes. "Father," he explained, as though it meant everything. Clearly, it did not. "He, um... he likes to drink."

Stark cocked her head again. "So?"

Tybolt sighed again. Or hiccuped again. Or both. "Grandfather says he's useless. Does nothing but drink, or spend time with whores." His veins flushed with fire. "Nothing I've seen proves him wrong."

Stark frowned thoughtfully. "Do you not see him much?"

Part of him wanted to throttle the girl for asking about these things, part wanted to hug her for it. Still, neither would be... what was the word? Beneficial. So he shrugged. "No," he muttered shortly. The emptiness filled him, draining his blood and the wine and replacing it with that overwhelming nothingness. "No, I don't really see him. When I'm at Casterly Rock he's in King's Landing, when I'm in King's Landing he's at Casterly Rock." When he looked up Stark was not looking at him pitifully or judgementally or any other 'ully' or 'ally' that made him angry - he was the Lord of Castamere, Heir to House Lannister; he needed none of that childish, condescending... stuff.

Stark looked at him like it was just a fact she had learned, just a fact of life. It was the way it was, and that was it. When she nodded, not smiling or frowning or all doe-eyed, he smiled instead. Tybolt was about to ask about... something, when some cold thing snuffled at his hand. He looked down to see a great beast, large as any dog he had seen, with clearly some room to grow, licking his hand and whining. It had fur as grey as Arya's eyes, and its own eyes were a brilliant gold, shining with intelligence. Tybolt felt this... surge of emotion, as though the lively aura clearly shared by girl and beast had leaked into him, as well. Smile widening, he ran his hand through its fur, softer than any cotton, finer than any silk, and crouched down as it nuzzled his cheek and flicked its tongue out again, drawing a wet patch across his face.

Tybolt felt a heat in his chest as a rumble ran from its throat to his heart, making his smile widen. As he felt the fur again, on its head down to its snout, he heard Arya laugh a little. "She likes you," the girl said happily, hopping down to stroke the fur herself. "Nymeria," she explained, grinning. "She's my direwolf." Nymeria let out a low bark, tail wagging as she nuzzled her mistress. Arya giggled and patted the direwolf, a little roughly, before getting to her feet.

Tybolt followed her. _I thought direwolves were extinct south of the Wall._ "How'd you get them?" he asked, feeling a good deal more sober.

"Robb and Jon found them a while back; Father had to execute a deserter from the Watch." Her face fell slightly.

The young lord tugged his new friend's chin up, brow furrowing. "What is it?" he asked quietly, watching as she looked at him warily, like she expected him to make fun of her for something. _What could possibly be embarrassing about an execution? Did Lord Stark drop his sword? Or did Robb's horse piss all over his boots?_ He did not voice his suggestions, however.

Arya sighed, looking down again. "It was Bran's first beheading," she explained slowly, clearly regretting even bringing it up. "But..." When Tybolt tugged her chin up again she pursed her lips. "I wanted to go, too."

 _Ahh._ Suddenly her embarrassment started to make sense, though Tybolt could not see why she would want to go to a beheading; it was not proper for a lady to watch a craven and traitor have his head lopped off. _But then, Arya doesn't strike me as particularly proper. Or ladylike, in any fashion._ The thought of this scrawny thing all in chainmail, blade in hand made him smirk.

Arya scowled, taking his humour the wrong way. "Ladies don't go to beheadings, I know. But I'm not a lady!"

"I know, I know," Tybolt giggled, waving her down. "It's just... you're so skinny; can you even hold a sword?"

Arya looked more like an animal than Nymeria, who nipped his fingers playfully before keening and settling down in her cot, bundles of cloth lining it. "Of course I can!" the girl snapped, folding her arms. "Just not very well," she admitted slowly, looking away from him. She looked even smaller than usual. A cold feeling hit him in the chest, an icy burn in his heart, and Tybolt decided to just nod, like she had for him. Arya seemed to appreciate it, smiling to herself.

Just as it got a tad awkward, Tybolt bid 'milady' goodnight (receiving a well-earned rap on the forehead with a nearby stick) and stumbled back to his rooms, between Tommen's and Myrcella's, in case either of them needed him. Shrugging off the sable cloak, he sighed at the dark stain and wondered how red could stain red before hanging it up and noting down in his mind to give it to the servant that came in the morning. The designs, etched and scratched on parchment stuck out of his saddlebags and he tried hard to think on them before quickly giving up, what with the thumping in his head. The looking glass on the wall, illuminated by the torchlight, was stained, maybe with some dirt, but little matter; it served its purpose well enough. Brushing the dark gold hair back Tybolt grimaced at the sky-blue eye, setting off the emerald orb opposite it. His freshly-shaven face was fair enough, he supposed, with all the sharp, angular features of the nobility; the high cheekbones, pointed chin, slim frame... still, he could not help but think atimes that he looked a little like a girl - his lashes were too long, his lips too much the rosebud. Tybolt was no Knight of Flowers, but certainly more attractive than a good deal of lords and even some ladies. The thought was equally welcome and repulsive.

The sudden, sharp creak had him spin to the shadows, heart in his throat. _Promise! Promise I won't do it again! Promise! Please!_ _Please!_ When he saw nothing, only the grey stone walls and the darkness from the freshly-snuffed candle, his blood eventually began to cool. Still, the young lion kept still; he could come from anywhere, any shadow. After a few seconds Tybolt shook his head from side to side. _He's not here, fool!_ He moved to undo his silk shirt, before a spark snapped his hands away. Thinking better of it, he merely kicked off his boots and laid on the bed. _You stupid! He's not here. He's not here. He's not here._ Tybolt's breathing began to slow, the sweat started to dry. _He's not here. He's not here. He's not here._ But the little lord knew he was. He always was.

Sleep did not come easily to Tybolt that night. He would not remember exactly what he dreamed of in the morning, but there was a blade falling over wolf and lion alike, an inhuman screeching over a blackened pyre. There were bloated, waterlogged lungs, victory born of failure and sightless sight. A castle burned twice over, a lion and stag clashed amidst a roaring storm, a rose blooming beneath them, and two wolves, red with blood. One howled at the burning castle, the other whined amidst a bed of blue flowers. Twin thrones, carved from weathered stone, toppled. A boy sat amongst a shadowed grove of white roots, looking for all the world a king. A crowned wolf and wounded lion circled as a bird cackled from afar and above it all, a thousand thousand waves of ice swept over the land whilst fire spread from a distant horizon, and that inhuman screech, with its crackling, grinding twin, were both choked, strangled, killed.

* * *

 **Not as good as the first, I know, but really I'm more focused much, _much_ later in the story. As in, once everything's gone to shit, as it always does.**


	3. Chapter 3

**To tell the truth, I'm not really happy with the way this turned out, and the way I've written it comes off as overly melodramatic, but I couldn't think of a better way to put it to paper, so to speak.**

 **"I'm a Scholar, Greyjoy. A Tactician, Not a Soldier."**

Robb laughed as Bran finally knocked little Prince Tommen on his arse, the boy whooping in victory before they were escorted from the sparring ring by an amused Ser Rodrik. His little brother grinned as Robb undid the straps, though he kept his laughter to himself. Bran's cheerfulness was infectious, and Robb could see Tommen smiling embarrassedly to himself as he ran to his cousin. Tybolt, for his part, smirked good-naturedly and ruffled Tommen's hair, reminding him to keep his guard up, lest he get his head rung again.

Robb pulled the smallmade armour from Bran's back and patted him on the shoulder. "Good work," he told him, doing up the straps on his own armour. "But I'm better."

"But you're older!" Bran whined. Robb smirked.

"Aye," he admitted. "But so's old Walder Frey, and I could kill him in a heartbeat." Bran had nothing to say to that, so he just stood confusedly as Robb marched in to face Tybolt. The young lion was slimmer than Jon, and lacked the wiry build of his uncle the Kingslayer, which inspired little confidence in his fighting ability. If Robb had to guess, Tybolt was more like his father; of better use in the War Room, drawing up battle plans than in the field with a blade in hand, though if Robb was judging from their conversation last night, he would not appreciate being likened to the Imp in any way.

His new friend weighed the blade in his hand, testing the length. Once satisfied he sniffed and rolled his shoulders. "So, how are we going about this, Stark?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"First blood?" Robb suggested, drawing a grimace from Tybolt.

Ser Rodrik stood between them, unamused. "No," he said sternly, pointing at Robb. Tybolt visibly relaxed. "These are blunted tourney swords; it's more difficult to cut with them, but they cause more damage. First on their arse, like usual." The old knight stepped away. "Now... begin!"

Robb raised his guard, watching Tybolt do the same. The young lord's stance was somewhat basic, his movements a little static, but his eyes ran over Robb as if analysing a particularly interesting scroll, and Robb got the odd sensation of being nude for all to see. Feeling uncomfortable, he struck.

The first few parries were simple; brief slashes as the blunted blades smacked into each other, the somewhat wooden clacking resounding throughout the courtyard. Tybolt was not as bad as Robb had feared; he was at least competent enough to recognise the better-known slashes and blocks, though when Robb spun around him with an overhead Tybolt was almost too slow to catch the strike. _Test his defence_ , Ser Rodrik whispered in his mind. _Then his offence._ Robb hopped back and held his blade out before him, ready to deflect a longer-distance attack. "Is that all, you've got?" he called, smirking. Tybolt paid him no mind.

The young lion, while clever, was not half as good in the practice yard as one would think of someone who had to have been taught by some of the best blademasters in the Seven Kingdoms. He took the 'opportunity', leaping forward to bypass the Bravo's Shield and moving to stab at Robb's belly. Robb spun again, smacking his opponent in the back, seeking to make use of his poor footing. Despite this, Tybolt was more agile than he had given credit for, and caught himself, pinning his sword in the ground as leverage to catch himself and turn to face him. A raven cawed above them, fluffing its wings up as it swooped over the Stark soldiers, where the boys where chattering excitedly, if quietly.

When the Lord of Castamere settled into a new stance, eyes flashing, a realisation struck Robb. _He was following the same plan, only... reversed._ Still, Robb had seen more of Tybolt's defence, Tybolt more of Robb's offence. Tybolt apparently sought to correct that as he attacked again, whacking at Robb's leg. The wolf stumbled as a small fire burned in his ankle, but smacked the lion's weapon away, kicked his wrist, and spun, driving home his own blade with all his strength. Tybolt was lifted by the force of the blow, wheezing as he landed on his knees, coughing and heaving as Robb laid his sword against his neck.

The sight of a Lannister, beaten and breathless, kneeling at his feet was slightly exhilarating for Robb, and he raised his blade for a final strike to the head, to knock him down, perhaps out. Still, as Tybolt gathered himself, spitting the rest of his loss at the ground before looking up at him acceptingly, if resentfully, a strange chill filled Robb's gut. It halted his arm and shivered up his spine, and before he knew it his boot was raised, kicking out to push Tybolt to the ground.

The air after Robb's victory was much more heavy than after Bran's; the younger boys had been merely smacking each other with what amounted to basically sticks, with no real talent behind it. A sparring duel between two future Lord Paramounts, the loser already a lord himself, was a much more serious business than at first glance; if a lord cannot defend himself, then how can he be expected to defend his people? _And he was honestly trying,_ Robb knew, smiling as Theon patted him on the back. _Everyone saw it._ Tybolt may be clever but it had done him no good against someone who had spent his years in the yard more than the library. _Has Tywin not seen to his battle skills?_

The Lord of Castamere, and future Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount and Warden of the West, had just been outed as what people would say was a piss-poor fighter, and going by the pursed lips, furrowed brow and steady manner in which he ruffled Tommen's hair before shrugging off his armour, he knew it as well as anyone. To tell the truth, Robb did not think he was awful as the rumours would say, but he was far from what could be expected by a lordling their age.

A quiet giggle caught Robb's ear; Arya had her hand to her mouth, shaking as Jon shook his head quickly, lifting her down from the balcony as they talked in hushed tones. Tybolt had clearly not missed that either, cheeks reddening by the second as he glanced at the doorway. _He's looking for a way out._ A slight shame bloomed in Robb before he crushed it; he had no reason to feel anything other than pride. The wolf had bested the lion.

Still, he turned away from Tybolt and the unimpressed Lannister soldiers to speak to the prince. "What about you, Joff?" he challenged. He could feel the smirks on his men's faces. "You up for another round?" Joffrey had sparred with Robb before Tommen and Bran, but it seemed that Tybolt was not the only one with lacklustre fighting skills. At least Tybolt had his quick wits to help him try to outmanoeuvre Robb; the prince swung like a tree caught up in a storm. Whilst initially the bestial attack had caught Robb off-guard, soon it became apparent that there was no tactic or skill in Joffrey's fighting, merely the desperation of someone afraid to lose.

It seemed that Joffrey, in his expensive wolf furs, dyed a red as dark as blood - intended as a slight, Robb was sure - was similarly aware of this. The prince scoffed and leaned against the stable gates, Lannister soldiers surrounding him in their ornate red-and-gold armour as the proud black courser in that particular stable whinnied and backed away. "Hardly," Joffrey drawled, smirking as Tybolt slinked under the cover of the crowd. "I grow tired of swatting at Starks with play swords."

A sting of irritation flushed through Robb. "What's the matter, Joff?" he teased. "You scared?" _This little prick wants to marry_ my _sister, and now he insults us? Under our own roof?_ Robb looked the ponce up and down, in his fancy red silks and golden cloak, the bloody wolf sending a very specific message. _Not in the seventh hell._

Joffrey did not miss a beat. "Oh, yes," he snarked, holding his hands up and gasping. "You're _so_ much older." The Lannister men laughed, praising their prince's 'way with words'. Judging by the way Joffrey puffed up, it certainly stoked his ego. As such, he glanced around. "Now where's he got to?"

When Robb followed his line of sight he noticed that Tybolt had vanished; little Prince Tommen stood sentinel against them, arms folded with all the bravery of a ten-year-old, before the shadowed passage between the stables and the keep. Tybolt had to have fled.

 _But why?_ Robb wondered. In truth, this sudden disappearance worried him. Surely losing a sparring match, regardless of the larger implications, did not warrant flight from ridicule? Perhaps he was embarrassed by something else? Aye, that would be it. Tywin Lannister's apprentice did not strike Robb as the sort to run away from a minor issue, however. _And that shaking..._

Prince Joffrey huffed to himself, disappointed. He shook his head, smirking out of the corner of Robb's eye. "Must have spotted that whore mother of his," he suggested to the guardsmen, who guffawed appropriately, drawing reproachful glares from most everyone else, including Jon and Arya, perched from the bridge connecting the armoury and the Great Keep. Robb knew his bastard brother would take the throwaway remark most personally, being subject to many rumours himself, and he supposed their little sister was reminded of it, judging from her set jaw: a feature kept almost solely for Jeyne Poole, Sansa's friend. _Sansa at least is polite._ Robb remembered nights when they were all younger, and Sansa would sneak in to her brothers' chambers when she could not sleep, terrified by Old Nan's tales of grumkins and snarks, of the Rat Cook and the Night's King. She alternated each time. Robb was angry, too; similar to how Theon's taunting of his brother infuriated him once upon a time, his heart thumped faster at the future king mocking the boy who would be perhaps among his most useful Lord Paramounts; the notion made little sense to Robb.

Jon and Arya hopped down from the sill and spoke between themselves. Prince Joffrey muttered something to bring more laughter from the Lannisters, while Ser Rodrik straightened up and tugged at his whiskers thoughtfully. "What were you suggesting?" he asked Joffrey.

"Live steel."

"Done," Robb shot back. "You'll be sorry!"

The master-at-arms put a hand on Robb's shoulder to quiet him. "Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges."

Joffrey said nothing, but a man strange to Robb, a tall knight with black hair and burn scars on his face, pushed forward in front of the prince. "This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?"

"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it."

"Are you training women here?" the burned man wanted to know. He was muscled like a bull.

"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik said pointedly. "They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age."

The burned man looked at Robb. "How old are you, boy?"

"Fourteen," Robb said.

"I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword."

Robb could feel himself bristle. His pride was wounded. He turned on Ser Rodrik. "Let me do it. I can beat him."

"Beat him with a tourney blade, then," Ser Rodrik said.

Joffrey shrugged. "Come and see me when you're older, Stark. If you're not too old." There was laughter from the Lannister men.

Robb's curses rang through the yard, furious. Theon Greyjoy seized Robb's arm to keep him away from the prince. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers in dismay.

Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his younger brother. "Come, Tommen," he said. "The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics."

That brought more laughter from the Lannisters, more curses from Robb. Ser Rodrik's face was beet-red with fury under the white of his whiskers. Theon kept Robb locked in an iron grip until the princes and their party were safely away.

"It's not worth it," Theon hissed in his ear. "Let him go." Ser Rodrik nodded quickly, though his dark eyes were kept firmly on the retreating back of the crown prince.

Robb slowly calmed, glancing up to see his siblings gone, before going limp. Theon released him, and he straightened up, leering after the party. "I hate him." Robb felt his fists curl. "It's been nought but a few days, and I already hate him."

"Me too." Theon tossed the sparring armour to the side for someone else to pick up. "Come on," he grumbled. "Let's go find the lion cub." Greyjoy took the lead, Robb following dimly behind him.

They searched for a while, venturing into Wintertown at first, for some reason, to check the Markets, passing traders and the brothel - Robb suspected by this point that Theon just wanted to bid Ros a good morning - before returning to the castle. The courtyard was empty, Mikken's smithy, the stables bore only the coursers and the mares and Hodor and the other stableboys, the Main Hall, the kitchens until finally Theon realised that they were not, for once, looking for Arya, and led Robb to the guests' corridor.

The door was not answered for a while; indeed, only when Robb raised his hand to knock again did it swing open to reveal Tybolt.

The Lord of Castamere looked rather odd. His dark-gold hair was mussed like a thicket, the red velvet finery crumpled, his mismatched eyes dark, yet shining. However, it was his demeanour that threw off Robb. Tybolt Lannister usually held himself with an easy swagger. Despite his slightly shorter-than-most stature, he seemed taller than Theon, as though he were more alive in a way. He exuded the arrogant charm common to the Southron lords, spoke kindly enough, and his eyes gave off that particularly irritating air of someone who truly knew better than whomever he spoke to; much like Maester Luwin, it could be assumed that Lannister was the smartest man in the room.

That air was stolen. The light was snatched from his eyes. The charm was dispelled. The lively aura grievously wounded. He seemed even smaller then he truly should, by all rights. He slouched.

Tybolt's eyes for an instant held a manic gleam, flashed, before they went sullen once more. He made an attempt to straighten, hold himself in a dignified manner, but ultimately failed. "Robb," he greeted, nodding. Even the light-hearted cheer was beaten out of him. "Theon. What can I do for you?"

 _Queer,_ Robb thought. "You vanished after I beat you." Tybolt flinched, then relaxed.

"We wondered what got into you," Theon finished for him. Lannister shuffled his feet awkwardly, then stepped aside to bid them in.

Robb was taken aback by just how well his new friend seemed to have moved in. Scrolls littered the desk, bearing complex diagrams of devices, mechanics and things Robb would not have bet a single silver stag on guessing the purpose of correctly. Small objects, thrown-together piecemeal attempts at passing the time were scattered across the silk white bedsheets. One looked as though it was meant simply for whirring inanely, many others were simple wood-made spinning tops, decorated with intricate carvings of words in a language almost foreign to Robb's mind, though it looked a tad familiar. Books large and small, written in black and green and gold, with depictions of great shadowbeasts and ethereal creatures, shimmering as they flitted in the snowy woodlands, laid seemingly forgotten on the ground, on chairs, one used as a paperweight for the scrolls... It was all orange-lit by candlelight; the drapes had been drawn shut.

Robb's own chambers were a mess, he could admit, but he would have believed Tybolt determined to make the servants' lives a hell, were it not for the servants themselves gossiping to each other. To hear them tell it he left yesterday's clothes and bedsheets outside before they came to collect them. Word had it Tybolt rose before them all, and strange mutterings could be heard. _Demon's works,_ they whispered. _Unnatural. Sinful. Heretical._ Of course these all became non-existent as soon as Robb asked; it was bad taste to speak such things about a guest to the hosts without evidence, after all. And Robb saw no evidence of a black sorcerer or some such evil. _A madman, perhaps. And a clever madman, to boot, but not an evil one._

"Well?" Tybolt snapped from his position, elbows perched against the sill. Theon was examining a scroll with what looked like some war machine or another before the Young Lion snatched it up, curling it and slipping it into his satchel. The instructions had been written in that familiar foreign tongue. Tybolt sighed, shifting his weight from one elbow to the other. "I was embarrassed," he said quietly.

Robb watched his friend intensely then. Tybolt was looking at him and Theon interchangeably, with those mismatched eyes. In the shadowed light half his face was hidden, though it was but a farce; the light from outside glinted off his slightly feminine features through the drapes.

Theon snorted. "Embarrassed?"

"Aye," Tybolt snarled, all traces of geniality gone. "I'm a scholar, Greyjoy. A tactician, not a soldier. I don't belong on the field. I'm too _weak_ -" he spat the word "-to fight properly. You see this?" He held up an elegant arm. "I've _never_ been strong enough for the battlefield. Never. Because I'm too _fucking weak!_ " he hissed venomously. "I know it, Grandfather knows it, fucking _Joffrey_ of all people knows it. _This_ -" he tapped his head viciously. "This right here, is my strength. I'll draw up all the battle plans you want, route your enemy into a ditch they never saw coming, pincer a force thrice my size, lay siege and storm most castles in the realm if that is your desire, but do not ask me to stand in the front line - I will be useless. I'll get killed. And do you know what happens when the commander of a force gets killed?" He waited. "Well?"

It was the first lesson Luwin had given them in warfare. "'The men lose morale, they lose discipline, they lose the battle, they lose their lives,'" Robb rehearsed. When Tybolt appraised him he felt more under scrutiny than when the king and queen had met them with jovial laughter and icy distaste. Suddenly he felt the urge to tuck in his shirt, hidden by his doublet. "But didn't Lord Tywin try to help with that?"

Tybolt's lips twitched. He nodded. "But he gave up quickly - 'the commander leads from the rear, so as to observe the battle and alter his strategy as needed. The fool leads from the fore, so as to perish all the quicker.'" The young lion chuckled darkly, waving a hand over the candle; the flame flickered gently beneath his caress. "It was useless, anyway. Uncle Jaime's the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms; if _he_ can't make me a better fighter..." He let it trail off. "I'm a better shot with an arrow, anyway."

The reminder of the Kingslayer stuck in Robb's throat, a certainly vile cut of meat to swallow quickly, lest the taste show on his face. He knew how fond his friend was of his uncle; Robb did not want to offend him when he was busy raging at himself.

By the wry smirk on Tybolt's face, he failed.

The next day, as he rode through the Wolfswood with the king's party to hunt wild boar, he watched Tybolt, trotting beside Theon and avoiding all contact with his father the Imp. Tyrion, for his part, seemed to share his sentiments, drinking and japing loudly with King Robert and Ser Jaime the Kingslayer, although he stopped to look at his son every few minutes. From behind, however, it was impossible to know what emotion ran through Tyrion's head, so Robb quickly gave up trying.

He breathed in the air: the cold damp of the moss, the scent of decay and flowers and a thousand thousand types f animal shit. The sparrows were chirping happily in their nests, high up. The rustle of the green leaves signalled the ravens shooting through the high grey sentinels. The roar of some beast echoed from miles into the forest.

"Hey, Stark!"

Tybolt was grinning at him lazily, as though yesterday had never happened.

"Tell him, Greyjoy."

Theon smirked. "Well, it's about the servant girl, Jenny. You remember her - the one that kept giving me that shy look and rushing to pour me wine? Well..."

Robb let Theon ramble on about his latest conquest; Tybolt had been hiding something yesterday, he just _knew_ it. In fact, there was more mystery to Tybolt Lannister than he thought. That outburst was not some random embarrassment; Robb did not know how he knew it, but it was too angry, too guilty to be a little humiliation.

 _"Must have spotted that whore mother of his."_

That was another thing. Who was Tybolt's mother? It could be any whore from Casterly Rock to King's Landing, he supposed, but that just felt wrong. _And why is he a Lannister and not a Hill?_ There had been no legitimisation, and Tyrion had never been married, to Robb's knowledge. If Tybolt was a bastard, then Robb supposed he must have been legitimised, but whorehouses tended to keep stocks of tansy and the like. He guessed they might 'forget' to take it for someone like the king or a high lord, perhaps hoping for some sort of royal favour, but really; who wanted to mother the _Imp's_ son?

He let himself wander, drift into the sands of imaginings, from where he was only brought back as a murder of crows screeched and billowed past them.

* * *

 **Yeah, a filler chapter, mostly. And not as good as I feel it could have been. The main purposes** **are really to show**

 **A) that Tybolt's skills lay with his mind, not his blade - although he does play this up in his head, even more than Westerosi high society, which - as Robb shows - makes a bigger deal about these things than they really are. He isn't as bad as he and a lot of people believe; however, a combination of self-deprecation (check the end of chapter two) and overconfidence in his intelligence does play into his lack of fighting ability.**

 **B) that he has an issue being 'weak' - even to the extent of blaming himself**

 **C) no one in Westeros really seems to know who Tybolt's mother is - this is a sore point for him since his only real parent is a 'drunken whoremonger'. Come on, now: we all love Tyrion's witty one-liners, animal cunning and soft spot for the unfortunates in life (he's one of my favourites and I always love seeing him onscreen or page) but these are some of his pretty big flaws, as well as his vengeful nature and entitled attitude. He's a decent man with a lot of pain hidden deep inside, but no one in Westeros really respects him, and he doesn't even try to engender respect from most people he meets.**

 **D) that he and Robb have become fast friends (and Theon to a lesser extent) - Tybolt has spent his life under close personal tutelage of the most ruthless hardass grampa ever. Think about these people today who grow up in rich circles, where influence is everything. Just how many real friends do these people actually have? True, he has travelled the Seven Kingdoms and met with just about every major political ally, but Margaery Tyrell, Varys and Littlefinger cannot be trusted, Pycelle is a lackey, Renly's a Tyrell puppet, Stannis is as cold as iron and the Martells are... the Martells. He actually has a chance for a real friendship here - of course he's grabbing it by the nutsack.**

 **E) yeah, Tybolt's kind of a mad genius with ADHD... sorry... not really...**

 **Need I say much else? A filler chapter with a ton of subtext. Not entirely happy with it, but...**


	4. Chapter 4

**A shorter chapter this time.**

 **Honestly, I feel like it's easier getting into Arya's head than Robb's - she's very emotional, acts tough, feels misunderstood, and isn't afraid to hit someone when they need it... or if she just feels like it.**

 **But then, we don't get into Robb's head at all in the books, so...**

 **"Bran _Never_ Falls."**

It has become almost a ritual.

He visits her in the morning, always arrives _right_ before she gets into her dress, always leaves _right_ before her mother knocks and tells her to hurry up. His hair is always mussed in that way that means his designs are nearly completed, or that he has given up and started a new one. He is never properly dressed; always still in his clothes from the day before, crumpled and wrinkled. Arya thinks he looks even more like a girl in the mornings; his dark golden hair is nearly as long as hers, his satin shirt (sometimes red and sometimes gold) barely clings to his slim frame. They talk about all kinds of random things: how Jon did in the training yard, whether Bran actually managed to hit the target that day, what Tommen thinks he will call his next cat, what platitudes Sansa and Jeyne gave Myrcella during the sewing lesson - and how awkward it made the princess feel. How sickeningly sweet Sansa and Joffrey were in between meals and Robb and Theon's drunken antics, most of which took place at the brothel. It felt good to just talk about it all; get all her frustrations out about how she is not allowed in the yard, even with a bow, despite the fact that she is leagues better than Bran, or how she cannot do any of the things she would like to do, just because she is a girl. It even felt good to listen to him go on about how much of a prick Joffrey is, or how much he wants to travel the world, or his latest idea.

 _It's a nice dream._ From his description Arya could imagine herself in the sandy plains of Dorne, imagine the sunshine beating down on her hotter than she knew possible, the rainy, disparate islands of Braavos, with the dozens of faiths and peoples and the Titan bearing over it all. She could even imagine the smoky, craggy, molten remnants of Old Valyria, deadly Stone Men around every corner. She wanted to do that too: just get away from Westeros and all the expectations; she was a girl and he a boy, so she could not wield a sword while he was expected to be a great warrior, even though neither of them could match their respective standards; she was a highborn lady and he would be one of the Lords Paramount, so she had to be demure, quiet, thoughtful and defer to those around her while he had to be proud, loud, quick to draw his blade and dominate the atmosphere of every room.

Tybolt had joked that they were in each other's bodies. Arya had smacked him over the head with a book on Aegon and his sisters, but giggled anyway and whispered, "Mayhaps."

Today, however, they sat in silence on her bed. She does not rest her head on her friend's shoulder, even though she really wants to. They are of a height, so it would hardly be awkward, but something, mayhaps her pride, stops her. Still, he wraps an arm around her, nudges her head with his silently as Nymeria licks both their hands and lays across their feet; Arya likes the comfort it gives her.

Bran fell the day before. He had been climbing the Broken Tower, the one that had been struck by lightning during a fierce storm almost a hundred and a half years ago, when he slipped, fell, broke against the ground under him. The dry dirt was cracked, a jagged scar where her little brother had crushed against it. Now he lay in bed, seemingly asleep aside from how skinny he was, how pale, how Mother would not stop crying or trying to make a prayer wheel, failing, and trying another. They said he slipped, that he fell.

Arya did not believe them.

"He _never_ falls," she snarled, fists curled. Septa Mordane would most like berate her for crushing her skirts; she did not care. "Never."

Tybolt sighed and tightened his grip, holding her closer. "Everything happens at least once," he reasoned, turning to logic as he was wont to do. "We don't even know what happened. A stone could have got loose, he aimed for a smooth one instead of one with a grip, his wolf could have barked, startled him-"

"He _never_!" she interrupted angrily. "Falls. He's climbed that tower hundreds of times. Snow, rain, hail... he doesn't seem to care; he's just as good on wet stone as dry stone."

"We don't know what happened," he repeated simply. Arya thought that maybe it was all he could say.

It did not matter. She resented him right then, resented his stupid girly face with its stupid logic and everything else about him because he's a stupid Lannister and _Bran never falls._

Still, when Tybolt tugs her closer she gives in, leans into his chest and she doesn't cry because she never cries, even in front of Jon, but she can feel herself shaking and when his chin nestles in her hair and tucks her head in she knows it's enough and then his other arm curls around her and he squeezes and she gives up and cries because it's _Bran_ and Bran never falls and Joffrey slapped Tommen yesterday when _he_ cried and the Queen didn't believe it and the King didn't care and Tybolt loves Tommen and Arya loves Bran and he's a stupid girl and she's a stupid boy and she wants the King and the Queen and her brothers and her stupid stupid son to go away because they're cruel and they hurt people and the King said they should kill Bran and what does _he_ know about anything and the prince is going to hurt her sister and she knows it and she wants to hurt _him_ and they should all just _go away_ because everything was _fine_ before they came along and she just can't take it anymore and crying feels good and she knows she's staining his shirt and she says sorry and tries to pull away but he just holds her even tighter and says it's okay and then he's rubbing her arm and kissing her hair and Arya realises he's crying too and she curls up and cries even harder because Tybolt's _good_ and he _feels_ good and it hurts so badly but she doesn't want it to stop-

The knocking at the door shocks them both out of... whatever that was. Arya does not pull away when her father says their absence has been noted at breakfast - what does the opinion of the fat King and the cruel prince matter to her? - but when she mutters that she will be quick she feels hands that are not her own at her eyes. Tybolt wipes away the worst of her tears; when her father's footsteps are absent he adds that he will be quick as well. Father leaves after that. Arya hears a catch in her friend's throat so she reaches up, not moving from her comfortable position, and dries Tybolt's face herself. Her friend murmurs a quiet thanks and for a moment she wants to bury herself in him again, but she just straightens up and sniffles, clears her throat. She checks his face for tear tracks; his bright, mismatched eyes run her own face up and down and she knows he must be doing the same thing.

At the same time they stand and breathe deeply. They turn to each other again as a chirping from outside signals the start of the day. It occurs to Arya for the first time just how short they both are; she giggles, and when Tybolt smiles she knows he was thinking the same thing. Part of her thinks she should feel guilty for laughing when Bran's hurt, when her little brother might never wake up, but she brushes it away because really - has she not cried enough today? Tybolt is warm when she hugs him; she keeps her hands on his arms when they pull away and he grips hers tightly for a second.

"No one hears about this," Arya mutters, glaring heavily at him. Jeyne would never leave her alone after this.

Tybolt, hesitating before perking up slightly, grins. "As you command, my lady of Sta- _ow!_ "

She catches him smiling sheepishly when she sits the book down. _War is a heavy subject, Maester Luwin always said_.

The next few weeks passed slowly some days, sped by on others. Bran had not yet slipped away from or slumped into the Stranger's grasp, his direwolf had not strayed from his spot outside the window; he returned every time they moved him, Mother had not shifted from his bedside, still trying to make that prayer wheel, and the King's Party still had not left. On the contrary; the King often tried to rope Father into getting drunk with him, staying with him all night and offering condolences. Sometimes his lap was even girl-free. The Queen visited Bran and Mother once or twice; her brother Tyrion was more frequent. Arya had only seen her little brother once, but she heard that Tybolt's father just sat and watched Bran curiously, almost analysing him for something.

Tybolt himself kept his word. Not a word was breathed of her little outburst; in fact, it seemed that her friend was unfazed by her (if she was being honest) breaking down all over him. When she asked him about it he just smiled and said everyone had to break a little sometimes; bottling things up just made it hurt more, so he figured it was healthy to cry once in a while, but only in private. Arya wondered if that was why his eyelashes were so long. They kept up their ritual, the subjects of conversation returning to more mundane things as the mood around Winterfell slowly began to lift. He kept avoiding his family outside of meals, with the exception of Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, who kept worrying over Bran and asking if he was okay. It was getting on her nerves a little.

Still, the most important news (or at least the most exciting) was Jon's visit. They were all leaving: Father, Sansa and Arya were going with the Royal Family to King's Landing, sans one of the children, who would be travelling with Tybolt to Ironrath and White Harbour, before meeting up at the capital, and Jon was leaving with Uncle Benjen for the Wall. Arya had refused to speak to Jon for two days after she heard; they had not seen Uncle Benjen for _years_ , at least since she was six, and he was only allowed to visit at all because he was very important; the First Ranger tended to hold quite a bit of sway, and since he had volunteered, he was much less likely to risk desertion.

Benjen was one thing; he was her uncle, and that was how it had always been, but Jon? That was... _It's Jon! He can't just up and leave forever!_ But before he went, he had given her the best gift she had ever gotten. She had it tucked at the bottom back, behind a lump of dresses. It was a horrid sight, and the Septa would probably take one look and tell her to redo it; the King's journey would have to wait - Arya Stark's clothes aren't properly folded! - but it was the best she could do.

Nymeria barked before the knock on the door. Arya ruffled the wolf's head, shoving the bags to the side as she slumped onto the bed. "Come in!"

Tybolt must have been about to leave; his riding leathers peeked out under his dark furs; his sword on one hip, long dagger on the other; his sable cloak forgone for a brown wolf's coat. For a flash Arya was jealous; she wanted to travel around in something bar this dress. The cocky grin was gone, replaced by a grimace. Arya did not like that. Still, he closed the door and sighed. "Guess this is it, then," he muttered, walking over.

"Guess." Arya stood up. They stood awkwardly for a time, before Arya grinned. "Look, see what Jon got me!"

"What?" She dashed into the bag, ruffling through the dresses until she found Jon's gift. Pulling it out, she spun and pointed it at Tybolt's nose. The boy let out a sharp squeak as he jumped back, raising a hand to his face. "What th..."

Arya laughed, swaying the gift from side to side. "Needle," she told him promptly, holding it out. "Have a look."

Tybolt had calmed, though he gave Arya a look of warning. _"I did not make a sound, you hear me?"_ that look said, but it was unnecessary. She had no intention of actually telling anyone. Maybe threaten him with it once or twice, but she was not going to tell. Still, he took the gift. Palming the supple grey leather, freshly fashioned, he ran a single long finger gently along the slim bluesteel, mouth slowly dropping. "This is... wow." He made a figure of eight, swayed it on the spot, fashioned three small circles. "This is beautiful." Tybolt smiled at Arya, fingering Mikken's mark, before frowning thoughtfully. "But where's the scabbard?"

"Oh!" That was embarrassing. _Forgot I left it right... here!_ She picked up the length of leather, the same supple grey as the handle. Maybe they were carved from the same beast. She handed it over, watched as he began to slip Needle into it. "Stop," she said suddenly, holding out her hand for Needle, not the scabbard. She sat Jon's gift on the bed, nodding resolutely. "You keep that," Arya commanded, looking him in the eye.

Tybolt's brow rose questioningly, and he made a face. "Keep the scabbard for your s-" Arya felt embarrassment wash over her.

"Never mind," she interrupted, holding out her hand. "It was a stupid-"

Tybolt clutched the leather to his chest, smiling softly. "No, no," he told her. "It's great. It's just..." He nodded to Needle. "Won't you need it? So you don't hurt-"

Arya cocked her head. "I'm not going to be running around the castle with a sword," she said dryly. _For such a smart boy, he can really be an idiot sometimes._

Tybolt looked down, turning a little red. "Right," he murmured. "Should've thought of that." When he saw Arya's grin he brightened up slightly. "Here," he rifled through his pockets, "Should have it right- ah ha!" He pressed it into her palm.

It was one of his carvings - funnily enough, she had never seen him carve any. One of those small spinning tops, with the odd writing in some other language. This one was not like the others, however: it was forged from white wood - weirwood, maybe?

"Just finished it today," he told her quietly. Needle's scabbard was placed inside the scabbard for his own sword. "I make them sometimes, when I visit someplace new, or meet someone new." He shuffled on the spot. "Well, technically it isn't finished, so to speak; I haven't written on the other end, but I can't decide what to write there. I guess I just-"

Arya cut him off when she flung herself at him, locking her arms around his neck, grinning. After a moment of shock she felt his arms at her waist. "Shut up, stupid," she muttered. She could feel his smile against her cheek.

"Yes, mila- please don't!"

Arya retracted her hand, leaving Needle on the bed.

* * *

 **Yeah, just a bit of fluff to close up the Winterfell arc.**

 **And yes, that whole paragraph was one sentence - it was the best way I could think of to convey the feeling of everything crashing down. It's hardly the worst thing that's going to happen to any of them, but aside from the fact that the Stark children are just that - children - there is a great gap in magnitude between little brother's accident and daddy getting his head chopped off. Sansa collapses and Arya goes numb; Robb breaks down and attacks a tree and we don't see Bran and Rickon's reactions. We only see anyone a few weeks after Bran's incident at the tower, when they're all about to leave (Jon notes in AGOT that Bran's hand is 'like a claw'. It takes a while to wear down the human body to that extent.**

 **Maybe a few weeks of knowing each other is too short a time to cry in front of each other, I'll just excuse it with this - they see each other every day, talk a lot, relate to each other very much, and it's a very emotional time, so...**

 **Also, yes: I do know what the writing is on the spinning top, and no, I'm not saying.**

 **See you next week!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I decided to give two in the one day - a two-parter, if you will.**

 **Tybolt wouldn't be a master swordsman by his age, but his insecurities are playing it up in his head - physical strength is a massive indicator of worth in Westeros, and with Jaime Lannister in the family there are certain expectations. So with his slim frame and lack of power compared to other lordlings his age, there is a certain extent of mockery to be expected - I can see a few lords demanding to know why they should fight for a 'weakling'. That's where the cleverness comes in.**

 **His commander's style is really more of a planner than a fighter (as established), but, like all commanders, he will inevitably be drawn to the fore, no matter how much he protests to the contrary.**

 **"His Name is Martyn."**

"Pray tell," the captain murmured, over the din of a hundred merchants. "Where would you have me leave the _other half_ of my crew?" He scowled as the last of the ironwood was passed down below deck.

Myrcella liked the man. Jonos Rivers was the descendant of a many-times-removed cousin of some Blackwood or a Bracken, but the generations had left little of Westeros in him. His mother had been a Myrish whore, Tybolt had learned in the tavern, and left her Valyrian heritage in his lilac eyes. The cropped bristles atop his head were of a shade so black that his father or grandfather must have hailed from Dorne or some Free City or another, and his sunbathed skin had been cooked in Slaver's Bay. His words sang of Pentos or Volantis. He was not a handsome man, like her uncle Renly, but reminded her of a less stern Stannis, if anything. _Well, with more hair._ To hear the crew members tell it, he had swiped the arakh at his waist from a disgraced Dothraki khal he had crossed on the fringes of the Red Waste, abandoned by his khalasar, before he cut the warrior's braid, then his throat. The sword opposite had been a gift from a bravo he saved from ambush, along with enough gold to buy a small ship out of the disparate isles.

Her cousin only smiled and cut a purse from his belt. He weighed it in his hand, chuckled, and tossed it over the heads of the crewmates rising above deck. Captain Jonos snatched it from the air, peeked in, and looked confusedly at him. Tybolt smirked. "That should suffice for a time, no? They can stay in the tavern; the lads seemed rather fond of the ale."

"Those are the men you're bringing with us."

"And I am rather fond of them." Tybolt threw another purse. Myrcella held back a giggle as the wind swiped it off course, and the captain had to pick it up. "Cheap tastes," he explained, sounding serious; his eyes shone mischievously. "I'm paying for this journey, captain; ale enough for a round dozen sailors going on a few weeks is one thing, but strongwine? Dornish Red? _Arbor Gold?_ " Her cousin shivered. "I'm a rich man, Rivers, you are not mistaken, but my aunt the queen has a thirst for Arbor Gold on occasion - I know what that costs. That's all they're getting," he pointed to the silvers in the captain's hand, "and if they want any more, well..." He shrugged. "There ought to be work just down there." A dark-haired woman of at least thirty waved to a passing merchant, her breasts hanging out. _Cousin,_ Myrcella thought dryly. _Not nice._

Captain Rivers followed his gaze and cackled, palming his bravo's sword. The grey sky and grey mood did little to dampen his spirits. "You hear that, lads?" he called to the dozen off-duty men jeering at the working sailors. "The lord here thinks you could all do well in the whoring trade!" The working sailors threw a string of cat-calls at their now-unhappy fellows, beet-faced and glaring. "And I must say I agree; you lot seem skilled in the art of laying on your backs," the captain shouted. "Now get to scrubbing - I want those hammocks rolled up, the chests empty, and the floors scrubbed, you lazy bastards!"

Myrcella's humour faded as one or two of the embarrassed crewmen threw her a dirty look. He was a big man, scar-faced, with a large axe at his belly and beady eyes. The captain smacked him on the head, hissing in some old Ghiscari tongue before shoving him on his way. _Sorry..._ Jonos turned to her, lilac eyes crinkled in a smile.

"My deepest apologies for Yurkhaz, princess," he said lowly, in his deep, accented timber. "He spoke back to his master in Meereen about his sister being in the Fighting Pits, some Reznak mo- something or other. No," he snapped his fingers, "Dezhar zo Raza," Captain Jonos corrected himself. "And his sister was - oh what was it? - something with a B... or a D... Regardless, his master removed his tongue; the man's never been the same since." He sighed. "But that does not excuse such behaviour towards a princess," the man decided. "I can only assure you that he will not be coming with us."

"My thanks, captain." Myrcella offered a quiet smile; again, she liked the man. Captain Rivers left to oversee his men's easy packing and she turned to Tybolt, who was looking wistfully out at the sea. His red sable cloak had returned as they rode across the White Knife, separating from the main caravan and speeding into the lands of House Manderly. It billowed, whipping up with his golden hair as he leaned on the prow of the ship. The sun was peeking out from behind the rolling smoky clouds, and the waves chopped up and down and up...

" _Over the horizon..._ " Tybolt smiled softly to himself. " _Over the horizon, the valleys will roll..."_

The sailors passed him by, heaving beddings and leather armour and sacks of silver and copper.

" _Over the horizon, our journey will go..."_

He spun a top on the prow, snatched it up just as quick.

" _Over the horizon, our dancing will show... will show our future, unfog our past, it will clear our path... and where will it end...? Where will we go? Where will our journeys close, our stories end? Where will our paths part, will they meet again? Can our fingers touch if our stories end? Oh, my blood, my love, my knight of ages past, I only know, I only know..._ "

He spun the top again, let it fall, the soft spitting sound of rain following it to the water.

" _Over the horizon, the valleys will roll... over the horizon, our journey will go..._ "

Myrcella found herself next to him, turned to watch the crewmen they were leaving behind as they freed the ship, and smiled as the captain shouted for this man to climb the crow's nest and that man to loose the sails. _Queen Naerys wrote that song,_ she knew, _for Aemon the Dragonknight._ When she looked back over the sea, a lone ship crossing out of sight, she found Tybolt grinning at her.

"Here we go," he said, taking a deep breath. "Excited?"

Myrcella nodded quickly, leaning on the prow. "I've been on a ship before, you know," she told him sternly, cocking an eyebrow.

Tybolt wagged a finger and nodded to the risen sun. The pale white echoed behind the smoky clouds. "Aha, but only from the capital to Casterly Rock," he pointed out. "Not along the coastline of most of the Seven Kingdoms. We're going out from the North," he began, waving a hand in the general direction of the exit to the south. "Passing by the Vale, skimming the edge of the Riverlands, right through the waters of the Stormlands and Dragonstone, curving down to turn west just past Dorne, then sailing through the outer reaches of the Mander, so the Reach, then pulling up at Lannisport where, after escorting the package to Castamere we'll head down to King's Landing. If the winds are fair, mayhaps we'll arrive in time for the tourney."

Myrcella cocked her head; she was confused. "Tourney?"

Her cousin scoffed. "His best friend has just agreed to become Hand of the King - do you really think your father won't hold a tourney or some huge feast?" His eyes flashed with something; either humour or some sort of disapproval. _Maybe both._

Myrcella herself wasn't particularly fond of the idea. Of the two main events, one was barbaric, the other more of a game, more enjoyable, she supposed. The fighting was essentially a few dozen men, maybe a hundred, being thrown into a pit and told to go at it until only one was left standing. Technically they were not supposed to kill each other, but there were always at least a few deaths. The joust was an excuse for the rich lords to dress up in their fancy armour and hit each other with a stick. It was actually rather fun, if Myrcella was being honest with herself, and she could not remember anyone dying. That was a plus.

Thinking of death, however, made her think of Bran. She had only seen the Stark boy once after the accident, but he had looked horrible. His face had been pale, almost sickly. His legs had stuck out at angles that had made her throat burn and her mouth taste sour, and he had looked so small, so... pitiful. She had worried for the weeks until the old maester confirmed it: the Stranger would not be claiming Bran just yet. She still worried, truly, but more for his mother. Lady Catelyn had been so eager to receive them, all smiles and curtsies and _if your grace requires anything_. When they left she had been a broken shell, a husk drawn tight over her bones, as ill-fed as her son. Her bright hair, kissed by fire, was brown and brittle. The pale, unblemished skin of her face and hands was sallow and grey. The proud voice that could belong to no other but a lady of the highest calibre was weak, strained, as though her throat was too torn and cut at the bone to get the words out properly but her eyes said all that she needed. They leered warily, hatefully even, at anyone who entered, whispering in the darkness _It should be you on this bed. It should be you cracked and broken. Any of you. All of you. Not my son. Not my sweet boy._ Lady Catelyn said nothing, and to hear her uncle Tyrion tell Ser Jaime they were all the same to her, friend or foe: they were as shades, faceless shadows to steal what little was left to her, to rip away her family; snatch her husband and her daughters, then leave her son broken and wraithlike.

Myrcella shivered as the frozen air chilled just that little bit further. _Don't think about that, you stupid girl._ She was going on a trip, a voyage throughout the kingdoms; she should enjoy this while she could. _We will hear more about Bran when we get there. And Lady Catelyn._

The _Destiny_ began to pick up speed with the wind, gliding gently out of the harbour, easing past two galleys and freeing herself to aim straight for the open sea. Myrcella grinned as they sped out, passing by the rocks that signalled the fringe of White Harbour territory. Looking up, she caught the spitting rain on her cheeks, the droplets running from her forehead down her nose and dripping off to land on her lips. It tasted as sweet as it felt, _or mayhaps the feeling of adventure is getting to me,_ but she cared little. In a fit of madness she stuck out her tongue to catch the rain, feeling the sweet drops as they made her giggle quietly.

The princess turned. The crew was rushing here to tie that knot, dashing there to cut that rope, singing along as their lilac-eyed foreigner captain shouted out a chant, _oh Jimmy way, hey, blow the man down,_ all working as one, ordered yet chaotic. As the bonds of the land were cut free and the freedom of the open sea welcomed its visitors one and all cheered, Tybolt and herself among them.

She spun, far more excitedly than was proper for a princess, but quickly gathered herself. She clasped her hands before her, stood tall and straight as a child princess could, with all the regality that was expected, and smiled politely at nothing at all. A hand patted her shoulder, and then her cousin was looking at her eagerly, taking her hand. _Go on,_ his eyes said. _Go on, your mother isn't watching._ His hand tugged lightly, pleading almost.

So she grinned, let him lift her up and set her feet on the edge. It was dangerous, but then his arms were locked around her and his head tucked in at her side and she laughed. Laughed at the frozen wind slapping her face, at her golden curls whipping out behind her, at the sailors singing and the monsters in the deep, at her cousin laughing at her laughing. Laughed for laughter's sake itself.

But then the captain was shouting at them not to mess around so Tybolt spun her around, full-circle, and set her on the deck, but kept his arms locked tight around her shoulders. She could feel his smile in her hair, as wide as her own, and she leaned back.

 _Yes,_ Myrcella thought. _This might just be the best adventure ever._

But children of summer had to have their sweet dreams, did they not?

It happened on the ten-and-seventh day, as they were passing the Reach and up through the Shield Islands, kissing the border of the Westerland waters. It was a bright day, the sun blaring hot, high above them all, and the crew were all soaking through their clothes. Most had foregone them, the shirts at least, with only the captain and Tybolt walking in normal clothing. Myrcella had exchanged her heavier dress for the weightless golden one she used to wear so often in the capital, before it began to tear at the edges. At sea, however, it was no issue; the seawater sprayed overboard and spattered her face. The wind was weaker that day, a gentle breeze just barely pushing them along, offering no respite from the cooking of the sun. Below deck was even worse.

The food had begun to run out, as had the ale and the wine. There had been a barrel for each of them: around a dozen ales for the crew, three wines for herself, Tybolt and the captain. The ales would be replaced when they boarded, and an extra wine for Captain Jonos. The fruit had begun to rot the day before; the blood oranges had browned slightly, the apples bruised easily and she did not want to think on the state of the peaches.

The princess felt a hand on her shoulder, looked up to see her cousin. Tybolt had shaved himself, she noticed, but not trimmed his hair. _Much longer and it will be as long as mine._ She held back a giggle; she was proud of her golden curls, but her cousin would look ridiculous, for all that he had more of a lady's face than a lord's. Still, from the smirk he flashed her, he knew what she was thinking.

"Up there," he pointed to the far-off land, barely visible but for the forest at its peak, "there's Old Oak, and past that is Crakehall, then if the wind picks up we might reach Lannisport by nightfall." Myrcella could feel herself grin excitedly; the sailing had been far less of an adventure than she had thought. Not to discount it, it was still an experience - just last night, a knife game had resulted in no less than three men losing fingers. _My cousin didn't lose anything._ \- but the novelty of the sailing ship had begun to wear off slightly. Enjoyable, definitely, and unpredictable, but mostly one either stood around or amused oneself with books or the like. _Much like home, then. Only on the water._ Tybolt had locked himself away for hours each day, as well, and he point-blank refused to tell her what he was working on, so her only conversationalist was the captain.

If nothing else, Jonos Rivers had stories. While most were unsuitable for 'a lady's ears' - _so sexual conquests_ , she knew; had the man forgotten who her father was? - there were many others: tales of his days with the Stormcrow sellsword company, of battles between the Free Cities and his part in them, even a few of the constant civil-warring within Volantis, between the Tigers and the Elephants, the two main political factions. The scar from his cheekbone to the back of his jaw was from some treacherous slime by the name of Brown Ben Plumm, who had turned cloak in the midst of battle for a higher pay. One time he had been captured by slavers just outside Meereen, and had to win his freedom in the Fighting Pits - that was where the slash up his belly had come from. There was even the time when a fleet of pirates had taken his old ship, and plucked the fingernails off his left hand.

"Nightfall?" Myrcella echoed, watching her cousin play with his fingers. She wondered if those pirates were dead. _I hope so._

Tybolt grinned. "Eager to get off this ship?"

"No! Well, I suppose." Myrcella sighed, tugging at the waist of her dress. "I guess I just want to get home."

"We will." His smile softened. "I promise." His blue eye shone with the honesty behind his words; it comforted Myrcella a little. If only a little. She liked that eye. The emerald on his right was all Lannister, all Mother and Grandfather and Uncle Jaime and Nuncle Tyrion. That was when he was Lord Lannister of Castamere, the future Warden of the West. The sapphire, however, his left, was his mother, whoever that was. That eye belonged to Tybolt, her cousin who thought up designs for clean water in his spare time, when he was done showing off his shiny sable cloak and fashioning little pieces of wood with foreign script carved into them that spun forever and ever.

She took his hand and smiled, looking out to Old Oak in the distance with its forest and Crakehall, home of Crakehall, and Lannisport where her mother's father's brother ruled.

"Shit!"

Myrcella spun. The crewman up in the crow's nest was clambering down, a shy, sweet boy only a year or so older than her who seemed almost scared of the princess, for all that he flushed red and stammered whenever she tried to speak to him. Pale brown hair matted to his forehead and his big brown eyes sparkled when he got excited. He was slimmer than Ty, a wiry little boy with a quick hand, sure with his blade in last night's game. She just could not remember his name.

"Cap'n!" he shouted, hopping the last few metres, catching himself on his feet. _Like a cat._ "Cap'n! Ship to the west!" The boy dashed to the prow, up beside Myrcella and Tybolt, pointing against the wind. He was right; a ship, a large ship, was billowing towards them as the wind picked up. The biting cold whipped at her face. The boy rushed to the edge, glancing back to her. "Milady-"

But then the steel point burst from his chest. The fletching, some sort of red fabric, stuck out behind him. The boy staggered and began to stammer to himself, in that way he did when she spoke to him. The warm brown eyes glazed slightly and he staggered backwards.

"Milad..."

Her fingers brushed his, barely kissing the tips as he tumbled over. Myrcella reached over, tried to catch him but Tybolt yanked her away, held her close, pulled her head into his chest. She could feel her eyes burn, but no tears run down her cheeks as she heard the splash. Then she pulled away, she had to see, she had to see it. Had to see him.

The boy bobbed out of the water, then in, then out, then back in, swaying with the waves that swept over his face. _Martyn,_ she remembered. _His name is Martyn. Martyn, Martyn, Martyn. Don't forget, you stupid girl, don't you ever forget again._ She barely registered Tybolt pulling her back, or Jonos Rivers screaming.

"Crow's Eye!"


	6. Chapter 6

_**"Power Has Its Price."**_

They had taken them from all sides.

The boy had been able to see the _Silence_ with his spyglass high up in the crow's nest, but not the swimmers that snuck up the ship as ghosts, and slipped daggers around their throats. The _Silence_ had then sailed over quick and easy, and her crew marched over onto the _Destiny_ , the man of the hour behind them. A few had struggled, but not for long.

A chill had taken Tybolt. Not just in his spine, but in his heart. The heat of the sun could burn his face off, but not touch the ice in his chest, the overwhelming stabbing that kept him still. Kept him unmoving against the cold edge along his throat, the lump scraping the steel as he swallowed, then again. He did not bother trying to talk to them; the ship was called the _Silence_ for a reason, and not by choice. The men were made silent. Forever.

Myrcella stood still as the man had snatched her wrists in one hand and put the blade to her neck with the other. The years of training in the arts of courtly manner had allowed her the ability to remain composed and still, but her eyes still flickered to Tybolt's, searching for some form of comfort. _If I only I had any, sweetling._ He had to remind himself not to rush to her, not to struggle lest the blade be drawn across his flesh and his blood spurt out.

Captain Rivers, too, had stayed still, though his eyes burned with a vicious, instant hatred; he glanced longingly at his arakh and bravo's sword, laid at the other end of the deck with all the other weapons. Yurkhaz's huge twin axes were slumped against the door to the captain's quarters, along with Myrcella's little knife and Tybolt's sword with the scabbard for Arya's skinny little Needle. _A skinny little sword for a skinny little girl._ He felt his lips twitch; it helped take his mind off of the danger, but not for long.

The captain marched out, in the centre of the circle. Two had fought, two had died. Twelve men and one girl stood with blades at their necks, surrounding the man that haunted many of Tybolt's nightmares. _That face..._ That face was a wraith, an evil spirit from his days as a child in the Rock. Uncle Kevan said he never existed, Grandfather told him to leave his tales for his wetnurse, Aunt Genna had said that children have nightmares; it was nothing to worry over.

 _He was real. He is real. I told them. I told them all he was real._

The dark hair framed the handsome face just as it had so long ago. The one sky-blue eye was still set off by the eyepatch opposite it, leering lustfully at everyone and everything, like he wanted to fuck them and kill them equally, at the same time, probably. Tybolt did not doubt he would, given half a reason. He could do anything he liked. He would do anything he liked. Even the shade of blue ghosting his lips was the same. _Shade of the Evening, the drink of the Warlocks of Qarth._ Was he mad because he consumed it, or had he consumed it because he was mad?

 _Quellon's sons are all mad,_ it was said, _and Euron is the maddest of them all._

"Hello," Euron Greyjoy greeted them. His smile was captivating, his eye entrancing. The man seemed to shimmer with power. "You know me. I know you. I am Euron Greyjoy, and this is my ship, the _Silence_. These are my men." He waved casually at the wraiths with their daggers. "Sorry if they are a tad... silent." The man laughed at his own joke. "They haven't been very talkative since I cut their tongues out." _And yet they follow him?_ Tybolt wondered. _Why?_

He had heard the story, of course: in the midst of a vicious storm Euron took a violent fit, screaming and trying to throw himself overboard. His crew had to tie him to the mast. On the morn, after they cut him down, the man had all their tongues removed, that they may never speak of the deed. Word spread, however, and still the men of the _Silence_ followed their captain.

"Greyjoy," spat Jonos Rivers. "Gods only know why you still live. If there were any justice in the world-"

Euron slapped him, and smiled with those blue lips. Tybolt could feel the evil in his cold black eye, even as it shrouded itself behind its leather patch. "But there is no justice in the world," he said softly. "And men rely too much on their gods to save them. The Seven of the Andals, the dragon gods of Old Valyria, the Harpy of Meereen and, yes, mine own Drowned God; none of them will help you. If I want you dead, you will die. But you can save yourself." Euron grinned as Rivers' brow furrowed. "Yes. Save yourself."

He took the dagger from his crewman and handed it to Jonos, who took it with a shaky hand.

"Save yourself," Euron repeated. "Kill me. My men are nothing without me, just a pack of... soulless husks. Not even fit for breathing."

 _Why do I feel like he isn't lying?_

"Kill me." Nothing. "Go on. Kill me." Still nothing. "KILL ME!" Euron snatched the blade from Jonos, shoved him to the ground. The man looked almost disappointed. He weighed the dagger in one hand, flashed it before them all. "So... weak. So... vulnerable." He clucked his tongue, shook his head. "If you won't help yourselves, why should your gods help you? The Drowned God, who gives men strength at sea? I have killed more men at sea than on land, and more than any other. The Maiden, who protects innocence and purity? I have stolen the innocence from hundreds, nay - thousands. As for purity, well... I have taken a lot of purity." He stroked Myrcella's cheek. "A lot of purity."

A well of ice burst through Tybolt's veins. "Don't you fucking-" The husk's arm tightened around his throat, the threat strangling out from his locked throat. When Euron's gaze turned on him he froze at the smile. He schooled his face into stillness, but the smile chilled his heart. _He knows me._

The knowledge made his legs shiver. _He knows me; how can he know me?_ A thought struck him. _No..._

"Ah, Tybolt," Euron said, rubbing his forehead. "Deepest apologies; I almost forgot you were here. Age must be working its... _magic_ , on me." He grinned again. "My, oh my; you _have_ grown since we last spoke, haven't you?" _No... no..._ Tybolt's head felt heavy. "Yes, yes." _Did I say that out loud?_

Euron only smiled.

"Now that the pleasantries have been dispensed," he said, "we should get down to business." He patted Tybolt on the shoulder, sending a shiver down his back. _Please, please stop! Won't do it again, please! Please stop!_ Tybolt mentally shook his head; dreams, nothing more.

"And what business have we, Captain Greyjoy?" Tybolt asked as they walked, keeping his tone cool. In truth, he wanted to run. Throw himself overboard, even. Anything to get away from this man, this monster. What was said about him... was better left unsaid. "I believe I would recall meeting you before." He shook his head at Myrcella, who looked at him pleadingly. _Trust me, sweetling. Please, just trust me._ He was unsure how he would get them out of this; Euron was not some halfwit Marbrand whose words he could twist to his advantage.

Euron smiled at him again, as one would a particularly endearing pet. "We have met, Tybolt, you know that. I would prefer if you not lie to me." The hand tightened around his shoulder. _No..._ "I hope the memories are fond ones. They certainly are for me." _No, those weren't real. They were dreams, nothing more._ "People are fragile things," Euron explained. "Rulers even more so. Very few can handle the pressures. Take your own Usurper King Robert. The Whoremonger. The man is incapable of ruling properly, and so he retreats, like he never has from a battle." That much was true; Robert had potential in the beginning, Lord Tywin had said, but grief and victory alike had driven him into the willing arms of his whores and the comfort of wine. "A man driven by his failures. Who has forgotten the glory of his people, who bends and simpers because your grandfather tells him. A man whose inability to accept the truth has caused only more failure." _True..._ "And my beloved brother is no better."

Tybolt froze in place. He pursed in his lips in confusion. _What is he suggesting...?_ "Balon?" the little lord asked, trying to keep his voice calm. "What about him?"

Euron gave him a dry look. "You know what." He sounded annoyed. "Balon has heart, true, but so does Robert the Whoremonger. So did Aerys the Mad, and Aegon the Unworthy. Would you call them good rulers?" _No._ But before Tybolt could answer Euron continued. "Robert and Eddard Stark stormed his home, butchered two of his sons and he gifted them the other." _Theon._ "Yes, my nephew. And look at him now: fucking whores all day, mocking everyone around him and romanticising our people."

Euron grinned in that dark way. "We are not a romantic people. My brother speaks of the glory of the Ironborn as something of the past, something to reclaim. It is not. The Iron Way is not some ideology, some way of thinking unique to the Iron Islands. We take what is ours, with fire and blood." The words sent a chill down Tybolt's spine. _Fire and Blood. Dragons and steel._ Had a dragon not featured in his dreams, many of them, screeching for help across the east? _Fire and Blood. Dragons and steel. The dragons. Ice and fire. North and South. The Ice Dragon in the sky, the Valyrians beneath the Red Keep. Ice and fire. Stark and Targaryen. Take what is ours. Fire and Blood, Winter is Coming. The screeching from across the sea, its crackling twin to the North, both strangled, choked, dead. And a thing, a dread black thing, six feet long from end to end and gleaming with its bands, circled with red gold and dark, shining Valyrian steel. He could feel the heat as his lips wrapped around its end and blew. The fire spread through him, enveloping him, consuming him and the glyphs, the Valyrian etchings engraved in those bands glowed with some terrible power and-_

A loud scream sounded in Tybolt's head, making him clutch his ears. The pain split his head apart, the ice filling him up, rushing through his veins, stabbing out through his flesh. _I can't see! I- I can't see! What is this? What is this madness!_ He could hear Euron laughing and Myrcella screaming and that awful, terrible screeching and he collapsed, crumpled to the deck. He wanted it to stop, _why won't it stop_ -

Then a vial was shoved past his lips, knocking into his eye teeth as the liquid poured out and lathered his tongue. The taste was... horrid. Like rotted flesh and old fruits, molten ash and black snow, but then not. The honey-like substance changed, turned to the wine in Winterfell, the peaches from the Reach, venison, freshly-stewed. The scent of those fruits filled him, all the smells in Lannisport's dockyard: the fresh-caught fish, the perfumes of the whores as they seduced the merchants, the spices and herbs from Volantis, Myr, Braavos, the smell of dirt in Arya's hair. All the tastes and scents he had known and loved, and none of them at all.

Slowly the pain began to ebb, the throbbing ache soothed and his mind cleared. The vial slipped from his lips and Euron tucked it in his belt. Tybolt wiped his mouth; his hand was stained blue. A deep, husky blue with Myrcella's perfume lingering on it, then the bitter tang of Mikken's smithy. He looked up from his knees as Euron smiled down, smirking almost. _Was that me screaming?_ he wondered.

"The first time tastes like shit," the pirate said bluntly, the smirk turning to the already-familiar mad grin. "You get to like it." Tybolt did not understand; Euron was speaking like a normal person. _And yet he is the most abnormal man I have ever met._ He took the offered hand and staggered to his feet; his head still swayed slightly. The Crow's Eye seemed to turn serious, pulled him to the bow of the ship as Tybolt heard Myrcella's breathing return to normal. "You know what I am, friend." _We're not friends._ "I'm the greatest friend you will ever have." The timing of the statement, and the wording, chilled Tybolt's bones. "Regardless, you know my power. You know what I can do. The Ironborn fear the Storm God, yet fail to see when he stands before them." Euron's blue eye gleamed with the madness from his hidden black eye. "I am the Storm God."

The words were whispered, yet Tybolt would not be surprised if the Usurper King in his cloth-of-gold tent could hear them - such a statement, such an evil could not even affect Tybolt's body like the lesser evils of before, such was the pure malice inside Euron Greyjoy.

"You know the things I see; you see them, too." The cheer in Euron's voice stuck in Tybolt's throat. "They become easier to understand with the Shade running through your veins. Such power comes at a cost. All power has a cost, and not all can pay it."

Tybolt was beginning to understand. "The weak rulers," he murmured, thinking of Whoremonger Robert, Mad Aerys, Failure Balon. _All kings, with not a true victory to their name. Not a true power._ He glanced up at Euron, the Crow's Eye humming to himself. _Such... evil._ There truly was no other word for it. _Evil, aye, and powerful._ Was that the cost he had meant? _Aerys was evil, too..._ But no. Aerys was mad, not evil. Evil required a certain... intent. Then it struck him. _Madness is without purpose. Evil has a goal, an ambition. Something it strives for._ But what did Euron Greyjoy strive for...?

 _The dread horn with its Valyrian glyphs. Fire and Blood. Dragons and steel. Ice and fire. Targaryen._

"You want a Targaryen on the Iron Throne?" Tybolt muttered. "But why?"

Euron laughed, loud and free, looking to the sun. "Targaryen," he breathed, cackling. "No, boy, I want no dragons. I want dragons." _But the only dragons left are-_ "You will understand, in time. Ask me no more. For now, I want one thing - the Iron Islands."

That did not surprise Tybolt. _Why else would he be calling his brother out on being a weak ruler?_ What did surprise him was, "Why are you telling me?"

Euron looked down at him, grinning. "Because you will give me the Iron Islands." Tybolt blinked. "You will give me the Seastone Chair, and the Driftwood Crown, and my brother's head."

 _The Driftwood Crown..._ "You mean to declare yourself king?"

Euron only smiled. "All in due time, boy; all in due time. You will know when the time comes. But first..."

Tybolt looked up, and his eye burst into flames. He screamed again, clutched his face as warmth trickled down it, then flooded. The taste of salt and copper filled his mouth, trickling down his throat. He fell to his knees, only held up by Euron's hand on his shoulder. His head was splitting once more, with fire in place of ice, his mind melting, succumbing to the overwhelming blaze that surely was scorching the innards of his skull. He saw Euron wipe the blade on his wrist, tuck it away as he had the Shade.

"I told you: power has its price." Tybolt wailed in madness, wiping the blood away, spreading it over his face, soaking himself in it. It was everywhere. The blood was everything. "Only two can have the third eye; the old man in his trees, and his little pup that doesn't even know it yet. We have no third eye, boy, and so one of our own must make way. Another world to see, another realm to explore. I have given you this, and now you will give me my crown. They call me 'Crow's Eye'. Well, what creature has a keener eye than the crow? Westeros is dying, child, and my murder of crows shall feast upon its corpse, until the end of time."

Tybolt wailed again; he did not understand, he did not _want_ to understand. He wanted to go back to Winterfell with laughing Robb and japing Theon and adventurous Arya and to King's Landing where he could tuck Tommen into bed and soothe Myrcella's nightmares, look after Ser Pounce and scare off the bad black tomcat with one ear. _One ear, one eye, I have one eye. One eye, he took my eye. Why did he take my eye!_ He clawed out, to grab something or scratch Euron, he did not know, but the man snatched his arm and pulled him up. The Shade was at his lips again and Tybolt drank eagerly.

"Those two, let them go. Kill the others." A dozen _shlink_ s followed the command, a dozen gasps, two screams and a dozen splashes and then Tybolt closed his remaining eye, opened it.

The night sky was above him.

He swayed to and fro, left and right. The moon was large and full and silver, watching over one and all with its hundreds and thousands of little stars shining their way. He was swaying left and right, to and fro. He groaned and stretched.

"Ty!"

A pair of arms locked around his neck as he sat up, toppling him back down. Golden curls filled his vision. _Cella._ He wrapped his arms around her in turn, smiled as she pulled back and he could see her beautiful emerald orbs. _My little sister._ His cousin, truly, but the only sister he would ever have. _And the best by far._ But she was not smiling.

"We thought you were dead!" Myrcella sniffled as she composed herself, sitting like a princess should.

A new voice joined her. "Technically, princess, _you_ thought he _would_ die. I told you he would be fine." When Tybolt looked over Jonos Rivers was slumped against the wood, bottle in hand. He slurred and swayed. "Told you... Not like the others. No, you two get to go; you're big important rich people. Yurkhaz... Gerion... Darius... good men, all good men. Even Martyn, the little shit. But they don't get to live. Oh, no - the little men get to die, should be honoured to die at some highborn fucker's command while he sits feasting and fucking in his fancy castle. Never mind that they're better men than any of you _nobles_ ," he spat, then spat. "They knew what it was like to have to _work_ for food. To have to beg at a street corner, to kill a little boy just because he wants the bread you slaved all day for. They knew what it was like to _starve_ , to be _hungry_ , but they die, oh yes."

Tybolt did not quite know what to say. _They're all dead? All of them?_ So it had truly happened. A shock of fear run through him; he felt the leather over his eye. Or rather, where his eye used to be. The sapphire was gone. Only the emerald remained. Mother was gone forever. And the lads. _I played five-finger fillet with Darius just last night. Man was a barrel-deep in ale and still kept going._

"Not you, though. Not the fancy fucking lord and his pretty fucking sister, or cousin or whatever. It's all the same to you nobles; not a shred of decency - godless brotherfuckers, the lot of you." Tybolt clenched a fist at Myrcella's waist; what he was implying... _No. Just no._ But the man was drunk. Grieving.

 _If your bannermen see weakness, they strike. They will take everything from you and more if you let them._ Tybolt mentally told his grandfather to shut up.

"It's not fair." Now Jonos was sobbing. "All of them. Little Martyn..." Tybolt felt Myrcella tense beside him; he squeezed her hand in a twisted attempt at comfort. "You inbred shits get to live, but he don't? That... that doesn't work." A pair of lilac eyes turned to them. "You don't get to live after that. You just... you just don't. It just doesn't WORK!" he screamed.

A chill took Tybolt then, but a colder thing, a certainty. An inevitability. Jonos was standing now, quivering with pain, with fear, with rage and grief and love and loss and probably half a dozen other things the little lord would never spot. In his hand was the arakh. _He slew a Dothraki khal and took it._

 _Power has its price._

Tybolt stood, squeezing Myrcella's shoulder. _Keep calm, sweetling._

 _Madness is without purpose._

He took the knife, Euron's knife, from its spot beside the sword in Needle's scabbard, along with a saddlebag stocked with Shade of the Evening. _Shut up, stupid._ A gift?

 _Fire and Blood. Dragons and steel. Ice and fire._

Tybolt sidestepped, kicked the arakh away as it was brought down clumsily, watched as it splashed into the water.

 _Evil requires a certain... intent. It has a goal, an ambition. Something it strives for._

He grabbed Jonos by the scruff of his neck and slid the blade across his throat.

 _Another world to see._

It came easier than he thought it would. The curtain of blood sprayed Myrcella; she flinched away as Jonos weakly struggled. The wine had dulled his wits, and his strength; Tybolt, with his slim, graceful, _weak_ arms was able to hold him by the forehead, an arm around his chest as together they slid down.

 _Another realm to explore._

A few more twitches, and Jonos stilled. Tybolt could hear him gasp for his final breath, for the life that would never come. He held on, silently holding the older man like a lover. As the life left the aged captain, something left Tybolt too: whatever it was, it left a hole in him. A hole where part of his heart had been, and he knew that the hole would never feel any better. More of him fell out of that hole, found him shaking before he hardened himself, clogged the hole with steel.

 _The red_ _wine in Winterfell. The sweet peaches of the Arbor. The smell of Myrcella's perfume. The excited glint in Arya's eyes._

He heaved the captain overboard, heard him loudly wake the sea. The arakh soon followed its master to his watery grave.

 _Power has its price._

Myrcella struggled when he wrapped her in his arms, pulled away, slapped him in the face. tried to run, tried to throw _herself_ overboard, to escape all of this. Eventually she turned and buried her head in his neck, screaming, then sobbing, then softly weeping.

 _Madness is without purpose._

The little fishing boat bobbed its way to Lannisport, its only guide the soft light of the stars above.

 _... and Euron is the maddest of them all._

* * *

 **Boy, do I feel depressed after writing this. My first really 'dark' chapter, and definitely the most introspective.**

 **I don't know if I really captured the Crow's Eye, but I figured that manipulation and intensity are his bread and butter, so...**

 **So it's up to you: my Euron - mad or evil?**

 **PS: just reread this** **... I am fucked. Up.**


	7. Chapter 7

**This is really just a lot of filler, if I'm honest, to wind down after the last chapter. And the result is very improbable, but don't take it seriously.**

 **Really, this entire chapter should not be taken seriously. Next chapter, though, is back into the actual story.**

 **"Figured It Would Make You Smile."**

Even Arya Stark had to admit the tourney was splendid, though she would never admit it to Sansa. The knights in their silver armour, shining atop their chargers; the smallfolk from the Streets of Steel and Silk and others Arya could not name, cheering and shouting for their favoured rider (usually the one that gleamed the brightest); the lords and ladies all clad in their finest silks and cloths, samite and satins, a dotted rainbow of reds and golds and greens and blues beneath their banners; the eagle of Patrek Mallister, the golden rose of Loras Tyrell, the grape-cluster of the twins Redwyne, the thunderbolt of Beric Dondarrion and the black stag of Renly Baratheon. The Hound was there, and his brother, under the treble dog of House Clegane. The sight of his melted face as he slipped his helm on made Arya's insides curl in hatred, and the sound of Prince Joffrey cheering him on only made it worse. She heard her sister and Jeyne Poole giggling at the sight of red-robed Thoros of Myr with his bald head and port belly, and Arya found her lips stretching, but then Septa Mordane said that he had scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in hand, and Arya was grinning. There was the exiled prince Jalabar Xho of the Summer Isles, green and red feathers forming a cape around skin black as pitch, who happened to scare Jeyne, but then she swooned over young Beric Dondarrion with his red-gold hair and thunderstruck black shield, and Arya sniggered into her hand.

Jory Cassel rode under the grey direwolf of Stark in simple bluish plate with an even simpler thin grey cloak, and Arya wanted to hit the septa for calling him 'a beggar'. Jory was nice to everyone; he definitely lasted longer than the septa would have. He never even got knocked from his horse, losing by a narrow margin to some freerider called Lothor Brune.

But Arya was not looking for any of them. She glanced up at the royal box to watch the princess in an unusually plain black gown sitting demurely in her seat between the queen and her brother Tommen. She had been even more quiet than usual upon returning, only speaking when spoken to, and then in a tiny voice, and none of her smiles looked real. Granted, none of this was unusual from what Arya had seen at Winterfell, but Princess Myrcella looked terrified whenever someone neared her, jumping when she was addressed. The queen had not been happy with Tybolt when she heard, and even less so when the only explanation he gave was a simple 'raiders'.

Tybolt had refused to speak much more on the matter, only that he did not recognise the flag, and the event was such a blur that he remembered little. Arya did not believe him. The eye he had left - the Lannister green - darkened at the very mention of the attack, and he paled whenever someone asked about the princess, or his eye. They had bypassed Casterly Rock, he said, only stopping at Lannisport for a night before turning to the capital, not even checking in at his own holdfast on the way. Arya did not understand how he had gotten the supplies to Castamere anyway, but he would not answer, and so Arya had dropped it, as angry as it made her. Still, he had made up for it. _Or he is making up for it, anyway._

Arya had muttered that she wanted to ride in the lists - she was half a horse herself in a saddle, everyone said so - but Father refused. With the likes of the Mountain That Rides competing, he did not want her out there, and little girls were not allowed, anyway. She was too small, he said, and she would only get hurt. Mayhaps a smaller tourney, he had allowed, in a small holdfast, when she was a woman grown. But by the time she was a woman grown she would be sold off to some fat lordling that would not let her out in the lists. Still, in hindsight, he was right. _I would just be making a fool of myself, up against the Kingslayer._ Jaime Lannister with his golden armour and his lion's head helm seemed almost unstoppable, toppling rider after rider. She looked at her skinny arms, then at the monstrous Hound. _A real fool of myself._ After, Tybolt had taken her aside. _He_ would ride in the lists, he told her, in her place. No one could stop him from competing. If he won, she would get the crown; if he lost (which Arya thought much more likely) he would translate the inscription on her spinning top. On one hand _of course_ she wanted her friend to win, and the thought of Sansa and Jeyne's faces made her giggle, but she found the whole crowning thing stupid anyway. That was _Sansa's_ thing, not her's. Everyone looking at her, watching her, judging her... it made her shiver. But the thought of Jeyne's stupid face had flashed before her and she accepted the offer. She did not expect it, however, and she would hate herself when he was stuck bedridden with a crushed leg, but... _He might not even get hurt, save his pride. And he did look pleased when I said yes... he hasn't smiled since he arrived._ It made her worry for her friend.

But Arya was not particularly interested in a bunch of flowers. She was looking forward more to Syrio's lessons; she was getting better, he said. _Quick as a snake, swift as a deer, light as a feather._ The old black tomcat still eluded her, but she'd catch him soon. The scratches on her arms wouldn't be for nothing.

Arya played with a scab on the back of her hand as she caught sight of the Lannister lion rampant, golden against a sea of blood, whipping in the wind as a strong gust blew more than a few hats off. A shout of laughter chorused from nobles in their high chairs to commoners in the dirt, and Arya found herself laughing with them as a squat man with a bushy moustache chased after his patchwork cap, ducking under the barrier and into the lists. She nudged Sansa and pointed at him; her sister giggled, telling Arya to behave. He snatched it up and sighed rather contentedly, but froze, backing away slowly from Ser Perwyn Frey's mahogany charger, which nickered warningly at him. A gold cloak strode up and took the man with the bushy moustache by the shoulders, frogmarching him back behind the barrier. Arya couldn't quite make out Tybolt's face as he stood at the other end of the track, but he shook his head almost disappointedly, stroking his courser's dark mane. Brightroar, he called it, after the lost sword of House Lannister, which he told her vanished when King Tommen of the Rock ventured across the Narrow Sea. Arya glanced at fat little Prince Tommen. It seemed like the sort of thing he would do. Lord Tywin's brother Gerion had sailed to Old Valyria in search of the blade, and had never been heard from again.

Tybolt Lannister straddled his mount, though it lacked his usual swagger. Clad in heavier gilded thick plate to compensate for his weight, a matching simple helm in place of his uncle's specially-forged lion's head, he had already outridden two Frey's, Sers Hosteen and Emmon, and snatched a slim victory from Ser Horas Redwyne. On his first ride the damage to his sight had hindered him, caused him to graze Hosteen's shield while he had to fight to stay on his horse. Her friend was a quick learner, however, and swiftly accounted for his unbalanced vision, taking the win with a sure aim. Ser Emmon had been an easier matter, the young knight actually being knocked into the dirt. It had been luck, true - Emmon's horse had stumbled slightly on a stone that had been missed when the lists were readied - but the king had allowed it.

When the horn split the air the two billowed down the track, lances taking aim. Arya felt her heart race as they clashed. Tybolt caught Ser Perwyn's lance in his red shield, but only glanced his opponent's torso. Still, it was a run in his favour, and they rode back up to the end, turning to start again. The horn blew again, and they raced down the track. Perwyn Frey nudged Tybolt's blow off course with his shield, emblazoned with his father's bridged twin towers, breaking the end of his own lance against Tybolt's chest. It pushed him back in his seat, but not much more; with a broken lance, however, Perwyn had outdone the previous run, and knew it as he trotted up to the end, back straightened like a peacock's. Arya wasn't completely certain of the rules but she knew Perwyn was winning. Prince Joffrey was cheering him on, and Arya wanted to punch his grinning face. A third and final time the horn blew and the two galloped at each other. Ser Perwyn's blow glanced off the shield harmlessly, but Tybolt's lance snapped at the impact with his opponent's body. The joust went to the Lord of Castamere. Arya suddenly felt very smug.

A few more matches were ridden: the Kingslayer unhorsed Ser Andar Royce and the Marcher Lord Bryce Caron as easily as a dog might run down sheep, and struggled to win against Ser Barristan the Bold, who had overpowered men younger than them both, and stronger. Renly Baratheon outdid a nameless young man from the Fingers and Ser Robar Royce unhorsed a Dornishman, but then a terror struck the stands. Ser Gregor, the Hound's brother, rode his lance up and through the throat of some new Valeknight, Ser Hugh something or other. For her part Arya was more interested in his strained choking coughs as blood splattered up around the lance's point jutting from his neck, than she was in his name. He died quickly, at least, but not painlessly. Jeyne Poole had to be taken away, sobbing. Arya couldn't help but be a little impressed by her sister; Sansa sat unmoving, hands clasped over her skirts, perfectly composed save for her heavy breaths. In fact, she was watching the spasming corpse much how Arya had watched Joffrey twitching pitifully as he begged for his life. _It is fascinating, isn't it?_ she wondered. Dying wasn't how she had imagined it: all dramatic and tragic, full of pain and sacrifice. Ser Hugh's death was rather simple, truth be told. He was alive, then he wasn't. Nothing much to it. _Rather pathetic, honestly._ People were fragile things, she decided.

Arya was unsure why they let Ser Gregor back onto the lists, but he knocked off Ser Balon Swann, and his brother, the _Hound_ , sent Renly Baratheon careening to the ground. The resounding crack shocked them all, but Lord Renly stood, grinning, and handed the broken tine from his antler helm to the Hound, who snorted and tossed it to the scrabbling crowd. Renly had to rush in and calm them, taking the tine back and marching off, slightly abashed. A hedge knight was disqualified for killing Beric Dondarrion's horse, and the Lightning Lord was promptly defeated by Thoros of Myr. More rode and rode and rode. Ser Aron Santagar and Lothor Brune tilted thrice without result; Ser Aron fell to Lord Jason Mallister and Lothor Brune to Tybolt. In fact, he was acquitting himself very well, much better than Arya had expected, or Sansa, or even Tybolt himself for that matter - with each narrow win he gave a heaving sigh of relief. _Mayhaps the gods are guiding his aim, keeping him steady?_ Arya snorted inwardly. _Well, may they keep his head from getting too big._ In the end, miracle of miracles, the Hound slipped from his saddle, leaving them with four competitors: Lord Tybolt Lannister, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Loras Tyrell.

It was Loras who had the final victory, actually splitting the shield of Ser Robar Royce and sending him clanging to the dirt. When the Knight of Flowers rode up to them, red rose in hand, Arya saw the flowery enamel of his armour, his namesake. Sansa all but swooned as he handed her the pretty rose with the same pretty words he had given half the young ladies that day, then trotted off. Still, Arya would have preferred him giving his honeyed speeches to Sansa to the short, skinny Petyr Baelish, who seemed too fond of touching Sansa's hair and stroking her cheek for Arya's comfort. She kept her mouth shut for once, however, as Baelish muttered something about their mother before striding away. She took Sansa's hand; her sister looked a little uncomfortable.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly, keeping out of earshot of Septa Mordane, who was helping Jeyne back to her feet - when had they returned?

Sansa nodded a little stiffly. "Fine," she whispered. "Just..." She shook her head. "It's nothing. I'm fine." Her sister offered a very small, very unconvincing smile. Arya nodded anyway, following them away. The moon had arisen, and the final three matches were to be on the morn.

The feast was even larger than the one at Winterfell. There were six monstrously huge aurochs, roasted over a spitfire and basted with butter and herbs; plates were overflowing with strawberries and purple grapes and sweetgrass, the surrounding dishes full of boiled quail and roasted fish, boats of gravy, different berries were littered here and there, and Arya didn't even want to know how many loaves of fresh-baked bread were laying on the tables, the butter melting as soon as it was spread. It tasted even better after the long day.

Arya was supposed to be sitting with her father, just below the royal family and Sansa, but she was a row below that, with her friend and betting partner. There weren't many on this level, only a few lords and lordlings; the Royces were taking their losses in stride, but the Redwynes were nursing their pride. Horas especially was leering from the other end of the pavilion at the skinny boy who had outridden him.

Tybolt swallowed his mouthful of gravy-soaked quail and hmmm'd. "I would have to disagree," he told her, referring to her previous observation. "I'd say he looks more like a rat than a weasel."

Arya took another look at Martyn Rivers, the son of Late Walder Frey. She cocked her head, squinted. _Maybe if I look from this angle..._ She shrugged. "Crows and ravens," she decided, chewing through a mouthful of green grapes.

Tybolt made a face. "I don't think that's where that expression come from..." He caught sight of Arya's glare. "...but it works all the same." For a second she thought he might laugh, but the light in his eye fled quickly, and his almost-smile followed. She followed his gaze and watched a pigeon snatch up a chicken breast from the Hound's plate. The melted monster clutched the bird around the throat and with one hand snapped its neck. The chicken breast dropped back onto the plate. "Don't fuck with the Hound's chickens," Tybolt muttered lowly. If Arya didn't want to stick the man with Needle and strangle him with his own guts, she might have laughed.

Instead her sight turned to something equally as unpleasant. She growled in the back of her throat. "I hate him," she snarled. "I _hate_ him."

"Yes, from what you sai-" Tybolt froze mid-sentence as he too spotted Joffrey kissing Sansa's hand and smiling almost pleasantly. The two descended into idle chatter. "Well, you'll have to get in line; my cousin's spine and I have some long overdue quality time that we've missed for so long." Arya thought of Joffrey bent backwards over Tybolt's knee; she didn't know whether to laugh or make a jape about her friend's proclivities. In the end she just smiled and muttered something about everyone getting their turn.

Arya looked at his face as he watched the proceedings with a grimace. He looked well, considering. Better than Arya thought could be expected from someone who had just watched a lot of people die and been mutilated. He dressed more neatly than before, combed back his golden locks where before he had let them hang loose, his leather patch was fitted perfectly over his missing eye, he kept himself freshly groomed and smelling of apples for some reason, observed his courtesies like a good lord should, and in front of other people was almost coldly polite. But then when they were alone he was back to being scathingly witty and sarcastic.

It was driving her insane.

But she just sighed and looked up at him. He was watching her now, head cocked in curiosity. "Do you think you can do it?" she asked him. "Do you think you can beat them?" She didn't.

Tybolt Lannister snorted into his cup of summerwine, a mockery of laughter. When he turned to her, the leather patch gleamed in the moonlight. "No," he told her sternly. "No, I don't. But I will ride," he said airily. "By rights I should never have gotten half this far. What's the harm in a little push of my luck?"

"You've done this before?" She would be surprised; he seemed more at home with a quill in one hand and a blank scroll before him.

Tybolt licked his lip to catch a stray drop of summerwine. "There's a couple of small tourneys in Lannisport every year. It's good for morale," he explained. "Keeps the people happy, brings in gold... I've had some practice." His voice was a tad throaty; he took another drink, swirled it around, swallowed. He made a noncommittal sound. "But it's hardly my life, like for 'Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers'." He deepened his voice for the title. "First I have to outdo my uncle, then..." He snorted again, almost dejectedly. "Then I get my arse handed to me by either a great monster of a man fond of splitting people in half or the favourite of the people." He bit his lip. "This was a stupid idea."

Arya scooped up a snail into her mouth. _Who comes up with these things?_ She didn't particularly care; it tasted good. A little slimy, but good. Maybe a bit bitter. "It was," she agreed. "Why are you doing it, then? You're stronger than me, but you're hardly the Mountain."

Tybolt gave her a strange look, like he was searching for something in her face. "I thought it was obvious." Arya frowned, and he gave a heaving sigh. "It's been too long since I've seen someone smile." He was no longer looking at her. She looked up to see the princess, pushing some freshly-served trout around her plate listlessly. Myrcella seemed as a shadow, invisible almost, apart from the world. At least, she looked like she wanted to be. "She hasn't been the same since..." A shudder seemed to take him.

"What happened?" she asked loudly. He gave her a harsh look; she quietened, fingered the blue gown the septa had foisted on her, but returned the look. "And don't tell me it was raiders." His lips were warm against her finger. "That's a lot of rubbish!" she hissed. "Who was it? What did they do?" She was getting angrier and angrier with every word, the fiery ball flaring up in her belly. "You won't smile. The princess is half-dead. You said they took the ship, but the stuff got to Castamere anyway. How does that happen? If they were raiders, and they took your ship, then how did the ironwood and th-the stone get there?"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Tybolt took her hand in his, eyebrows raised as he clasped it in the other. It made her feel a little better, but still she glared heavily at him. "They're dead," he told her. "Only the captain, Cella and I were left, but they're dead. Some got away, but... You must have misheard," he decided, squeezing her hand gently. "They were _going_ to take the ship," he explained. "But we got back, but everyone's dead." He swallowed.

"Really?" Arya's eyes were wide. Tybolt hummed in agreement. "But... what about the captain?"

The deafening clamour from around them meant she had to read his lips. "One of the boys, th-that died," he choked out. "His name was... was Martyn." His eyes were far away. "He was his little brother." For a moment she thought he might smile, but the twitching of his lips stopped. "He liked Cella. _Really_ liked her. I think she might have liked him too, but... he was the first. An arrow. Just... tumbled into the water. Like he was nothing." Arya remembered the young knight Ser Gregor had run through the neck. The odd fascination came over her again. Tybolt pointed to his eyepatch. "The second arrow. Anyway, afterwards... the captain, Jonos, he, uh, he got really drunk. Really, _really_ drunk. He came at me," he said simply. "He came at me and I, uh..." He nodded in place of an explanation.

Suddenly Arya wanted to throw herself at him, tuck his head under her chin like he had for her, but she just squeezed his hand. _I wish I could say something._ But what could she say? What was she meant to say? "How did it feel?" she blurted out. _Well, not that..._ But she had started; she may as well finish. "To kill someone, I mean."

Tybolt considered it for a moment. "Empty," he said, then nodded. "Yes. Empty."

"What do yo-"

But Tybolt wasn't listening to her. "I wonder if the plans reached there yet," he muttered idly. When he saw Arya watching him she spotted his cheeks turn slightly pink. "Oh, um... The plans for Bran's chair. Now that he's woken up, I figured... Well, it's based on Doran Martell's chair." The pink deepened when he saw that she had no idea what he meant. "It's the same principle - the chair moves around - but instead of being pushed around, I added an outer ring for Bran to grip." He motioned how the chair would move around with his hands. "All he has to do is push the left wheel to move right, right to move left, and both to go forward." _Did you..._ As if he had read her mind Tybolt smacked his head. "Seven hells, you-" he hissed something in his throaty, foreign language, "-I didn't give instructions." He shrugged. "Well, he's a smart boy. He'll figure it out."

Arya smirked. Things fled his head just as quick as they entered it. She opened her mouth to make a jape when-

"No," the king thundered in a voice that drowned out the entire feast. He was on his feet, red of face, reeling from the wine. He had a goblet in one hand, and he was as drunk as a man could be. "You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed at Queen Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"

The feast was silent. Ser Barristan the Bold, Lord Renly, Ser Jaime the Kingslayer, none of them made a move to interfere. Queen Cersei's face was bloodless, whiter than snow. She rose from the table, gathered her skirts in her hand, and stormed away, servants trailing behind. When her brother placed a hand on the king's shoulder he was shoved hard to the ground.

The king guffawed. "The great knight," he mocked. "I can still knock you in the dirt. Remember that, Kingslayer." He slapped his chest with the goblet, spilling wine over his satin tunic. "Give me my hammer and not a man in the realm can stand before me!"

Ser Jaime got to his feet and brushed himself off. "As you say, your grace," he said stiffly. His face was hard as stone, and a hand rested at his belt, as though he longed to draw a blade.

"You've spilled your wine, Robert," Lord Renly scolded cheerfully. "Let me bring you a fresh goblet."

Soon, the festivities picked up. They were much more subdued, however, save for the king, who laughed and japed and brought a passing serving girl into his lap. She giggled, patting his chest. Arya looked away, embarrassed by the sight.

"I'm going back in," she told Tybolt, finishing her food - a lone purple grape. He looked up. His plate was clean. "It's boring out here now."

Tybolt nodded, downing his last mouthful of summerwine. "It has. I'll come with you." No one noticed their leaving; Father had left early, Septa Mordane was snoring in her chair and Sansa was gone, as was the Hound, Arya noticed.

Their respective chambers were far apart; Tybolt's in the main body of the Red Keep, a floor beneath the royal family's, and her own in the Tower of the Hand, opposite her lord father's and next to Sansa's. Still, he walked with her, his gaze constantly flickering to the shadows, which waxed and waned with the light of the torches in their sconces. Up one floor, then the next, until they met the Hound himself, a few staircases down from her rooms.

Sandor Clegane glared darkly. The melted red flesh of his face burned bright as blood, and his jutting cheekbone gleamed like sharpened steel. "The little wolf bitch," he greeted, bowing only just enough that it could be considered a bow. His shadow only grew behind him, taller than ever. His voice pulsed with dislike. "My lord."

Arya swallowed her fear. "What do you want?" she demanded, her face curling with hatred. Tybolt gripped her wrist. Arya bit her lip. "I mean, why are you here, Ser Sandor?" she said slowly, feeling the strain in her jaw from gritting her teeth. The politeness was painful.

Clegane's features twisted, turning to a snarl. The long, dank hair fell from the melted side of his face, hanging before his eyes. "Escorting your sister to her chambers, girl," he answered, just as slowly. "The prince commanded me, if it eases your worries."

Tybolt's grip on her wrist tightened. "I imagine it does little to ease anyone's worries," he said testily, in a voice flowing with silky malice. "Away with you, Dog. I have no patience for you tonight."

Clegane bowed again, not lowering his eyes. "As my lord commands," he muttered angrily, almost pushing past them on his way. Arya loosened her jaw, began to walk again, when she heard, "Girl."

Arya turned to see the Hound leering at her from the staircase, his eyes glittering hatefully in the shadowy gloom. "My brother's the ser," he growled. I'm just the dog." His lip curled into a sneer. "I like it that way." Then he turned, fists tight, and marched down the stairs.

"I hate him," Arya blurted out when they reached her door. "I hate them all. The Hound. The queen and the king. And Joffrey and Sansa!" She couldn't keep it in any more.

Tybolt didn't refute her, or rebuke her for adding her sister to the list. She knew she shouldn't, but then Nymeria's face flashed before her, confused, betrayed, a line of red running down her smoky grey coat and all the anger came rushing back. "Me too," he said simply. "Well, the Hound and Joffrey." He made a face at the flickering flame above her, and squeezed her wrist again. He hadn't let go the entire way. "And-" He broke off, shaking. His face was stiff, his eye cold, before he looked back up at her. He seemed at a loss for something to say.

"Good luck tomorrow," she told him quietly. She offered a small smile. _You'll need it._ Arya knew they were of a height, but she felt taller than him suddenly, their eyes locked together. He just looked so _small_ , lost in his memory. She twisted her wrist and squeezed his hand, a little rougher than was necessary.

Tybolt still didn't smile, but the way his face lightened told her he was grateful. "Thanks." His voice was quiet. He squeezed back. "I'll need it."

Arya had an idea. "You should come to my lessons!" she said excitedly. _That'll cheer him up,_ she knew.

Tybolt scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. "Sword lessons?" he asked dryly. "Seriously? You know I'm horrible at fighting."

"That's why it's lessons," she told him. She had thought that was obvious.

Tybolt thought about it before nodding. "I'll think about it," he promised. "Goodnight."

"'Night." When they let go Arya turned and opened the door, but watched Tybolt's slim frame disappear silently into the shadows before she slipped into her room and closed it.

She was a little surprised to find that her lord father was joining them for the final tilts of the tourney. He edged through and sat between the girls, turning to check on them before watching the joust. The first match was Tybolt against Ser Jaime. Her friend mounted his courser with a good deal more energy than he had the day before, and even deigned to give a half-hearted wave. It still earned him scattered cheers, and Arya could have sworn he went slightly red.

"A hundred gold dragons on the Kingslayer," Petyr Baelish announced loudly as Ser Jaime trotted into the lists atop his elegant blood bay destrier. Where his nephew wore only his solid, heavy gold plate along with a plain helmet to weigh him down, the more experienced Jaime Lannister glittered from head to heel, his horse clad in gilded ringmail. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles.

"A fool's bet," Lord Renly rebuked Baelish playfully, "but luckily for you I happen to have a soft spot for the underdog. A hundred dragons - the boy shouldn't have reached this far; maybe he'll see it through to the end, eh? Seems the gods are looking down on him."

"Even the gods have to lift their gaze sometime," Baelish called dryly. Tybolt took up his position promptly while Ser Jaime blew a kiss to some lady in the stands and followed. Both men couched their lances.

Arya quickly glanced over. Her father was watching the proceedings coldly, even colder when his gaze rested upon Ser Jaime, while Sansa was watching all moist-eyed and eager. Arya, for her part, could feel her chest thundering. _Lord Baelish is right_ , she knew. Everyone's luck had to run out. For a second she saw Ser Hugh, spasming on the ground, blood sputtering from his throat, and the thundering only got worse.

The horses broke into a gallop. Tybolt decided to lean forward, lance steady, but his uncle shifted his seat deftly before the impact and his lance slid helplessly off of the golden shield as a loud crack was followed by the cheers of the smallfolk. Ser Jaime's lance had broken and Tybolt had to fight for his seat, riding up to the end and spinning back.

"What will I buy with a hundred dragons?" Baelish mused loudly. "A dozen barrels of Dornish wine? A girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?"

Lord Renly snorted. "Or you could even buy a friend."

On the second tilt Ser Jaime shifted his seat again, but Tybolt had learned, and shifted with him. He caught his uncle's blow, and his own lance snapped against Ser Jaime's helm, knocking him back slightly. More spots of cheering. The two rode back up for the final ride.

The two clashed in a fury of metal and wood. Ser Jaime's lance broke against Tybolt's chest, but Tybolt had changed his shift back into position at the last second - the splintering of wood jammed open the lion's jaws. Tybolt was knocked back, clutching the reins, while Ser Jaime flailed, reaching to smack the wood away. In doing so, the jaws slammed shut, and a wincing Ser Jaime had no time to grab his reins. He crashed to the ground loudly. When he got up, he began swaying and stumbling in one direction, then the next. His helm had twisted, locked around his neck, and he had to be guided off the lists. To his credit, however, Ser Jaime took it in stride, waving wildly to the commons and shouting something Arya couldn't hear.

"Such a shame," Lord Renly drawled, grinning. "I would've liked to see you with a friend."

Lord Baelish did not bother to answer, fingering his gold purse.

Lord Renly continued. "A pity the Imp is not here with us. He's fond of the boy, but I still should've won twice as much. It's a tradition for him." Arya ignored him.

The Hound's brother then rode in, taking his place at the head of the lists. Gregor the Mountain stood almost eight feet tall, with massive shoulders and arms as thick as the trunks of small trees. His huge destrier seemed a pony under him, and the lance looked like a broom handle in his hand. _He's bigger than Hodor!_ Still, it was his unnaturally small eyes that unnerved Arya, almost beady in the way they glared at everyone, far more viciously than the Hound ever had. _He's worse than the Hound_ , she realised, _bigger and faster and crueler._ Arya hadn't thought anyone could be worse than the Hound...

The crowd sighed when Loras Tyrell rode in, Sansa among them. He wore polished silver armour, filigreed with vines and inlaid with sapphires in the centres of each flowery design, and had exchanged his elaborately-styled cloak for a woven tapestry of real forget-me-nots, gleaming blue in the beating sunshine.

"Oh, he's so _beautiful_ ," Sansa breathed, gasping as Ser Loras pranced around on his mare in a show. Arya saw her look up at the Mountain and tighten her grip around their lord father's arm. "Father, don't let Ser Gregor hurt him." Arya remembered Ser Hugh, and winced, but thought dryly to herself, _Okay, so is she in love with Joffrey or Loras?_ She wasn't about to pretend to know what went on in her sister's mind. When she remembered Nymeria she felt her fists curl in her lap.

It only lasted a single ride. The Mountain's destrier was writhing beneath him, blathering agitatedly. When the two collided, Ser Loras didn't even break his lance, his opponent thrown to the ground more by his horse than Loras' joust. Arya let out a quiet breath as the people cheered for the favourite; _at least he isn't going to die. He might get humiliated, but he won't die._ Ser Loras danced about on his mare, waving to them.

But the Mountain was not happy. "My sword," he shouted to his squire as his horse got to its feet. He caught the blade and decapitated the destrier with a single mighty blow, and was sprayed with dark horse blood. The cheering stopped. A few screams split the silence. He turned and looked straight at Ser Loras. The blood coated his face, dripping from his great beard in large droplets and giving his steel a black sheen.

"Stop him!" Father shouted, to no avail. Arya's heart was pounding behind her ribcage; he wouldn't murder Ser Loras out in front of everyone, would he? He couldn't be that brazen.

But he was. The Mountain strode towards the smaller knight, raising his sword with a low growl. Loras Tyrell was barely older than Theon, if that, and he looked it with his pride and showmanship replaced by danger and terror. He just remembered to call for his own sword when Ser Gregor struck him with a savage two-handed blow that knocked him to the dirt. The mare dashed off in a panic. The Mountain raised his blade for the killing strike, but a rasping voice cut through the silence. "Leave him be."

The Hound wrenched Ser Gregor away from Loras, and the Mountain roared as he swung to behead his brother, but the Hound caught the strike, brushing it away. For a long time the two swung and swung, clashing with wordless fury, until King Robert got to his feet.

"STOP THIS MADNESS!" he boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"

The Hound immediately dropped to one knee, his brother's sword cutting the air where his head had been. Ser Gregor seemed to realise where he was, dropping his sword and glaring hatefully at the king before striding off. The king told them to let him go, and Arya didn't understand. Surely the Mountain should have been arrested? He had attacked someone unprovoked. But then she thought of Gregor Clegane's sheer size and strength and decided it was probably best this way. _Doesn't mean I have to like it._

Ser Loras approached the Hound a little warily, but smiling. "I owe you my life, ser." Sansa sighed, but the Hound was not impressed.

"I'm no ser," he grunted, and marched back to Joffrey's side. Ser Loras stood awkwardly for a few seconds before nodding and leaving to prepare for the final.

 _I never thought I would be glad to see the Hound._

It took a while to clean up the blood left behind by the Mountain's horse, but soon Ser Loras rode back onto the lists. He was sitting atop a new blood bay destrier, much like the Kingslayer's, and, his tapestry of flowers ruined, wearing a simpler green cloak with the Tyrell rose. The people cheered for him again, and he bowed from his horse, waving gaily. There was less applause for Tybolt, searching the crowd for Arya before waving to everyone, but nodding to her. She understood. _Now or never._ Arya played with the spinning top, running it between her fingers idly.

He tipped his lance, and the horn blew.

Tybolt and Loras dashed toward each other. When they neared, Ser Loras lifted his lance, and broke it off Tybolt's helm. Tybolt broke his own against Loras' breastplate. One round to the Knight of Flowers.

On the second tilt, Tybolt deflected the blow and struck Loras' breastplate again, but not breaking it. One round to Tybolt Lannister.

On the third tilt Arya ran her fingers over the engraving: _Ropatasonar, lenton hen zokli_. It was oddly comforting, the feel of the wood between her fingertips, and the words made her think of home, of Mother and Bran and Robb and Rickon. They made her think of Maester Luwin, of Old Nan and Hodor and Hullen the horsemaster. They made her think of Jon Snow's smile. When the two met Tybolt tried to shift his seat and aim for Loras' helmet, but Loras aimed his lance just so, and he was knocked off of Brightroar and sent careening to the ground.

Tybolt crashed loudly against the dirt, his armour clanging. The sound reverberated in Arya's ears, drowning out the roars of the crowd, of Sansa's cheering. Ser Loras rode past as Tybolt struggled to his knees, and helped him to his feet. Arya couldn't hear what was said, but he was thanking him, and he clung to Brightroar as the beast aided him off the lists, clutching his side. A boy around their age ran out to help with the overbearingly heavy armour. Loras Tyrell took the crown of winter roses, a gleam of blue at the tip of his lance, and trotted down towards the royal box. He laid the blue crown in Myrcella's lap, and said something that Arya could not hear, but she made out, "... should never look so saddened." The princess smiled shyly, but it dropped when Ser Loras rode from the lists on his blood bay steed.

For some reason, Sansa looked upset.

Arya soon found herself rushing to Tybolt's chambers, not bothering to knock. _I knew this would happen!_ She wouldn't pretend to be an expert on medicines - she was no maester - but she had overheard Maester Luwin when a hunter had been beaten with clubs by wildlings, that people could bleed to death _from the inside_. Her heart thumped rapidly. If that fall had... _I should never have said yes! And for... what? Because of Jeyne? Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Tybolt spun, dagger in one hand and a book in the other, then lowered the blade with a sigh. "It's you," he said, relieved. He used the dagger to keep his place in the book, setting it on a nearby table. _A Treatise on the Arts of War, by Archmaester Remus Penrose, 137 AL. Trust him to pick a maester's book for light reading._

"Who'd you think it was?" Arya teased, grinning. She nodded to the dagger. "Joffrey?"

Tybolt let out a hollow laugh. "No, it's... it's nothing." Arya wanted to press, but only sighed.

"Sorry." He narrowed his brow confusedly. Arya looked at him. "You got hurt, because I let you go out there. Because I-"

"No." Arya stopped; Tybolt looked almost angry, but not with her. "I was going out anyway. Needed something to... to..." He let out a quiet growl, like the lion of his sigil. "I just wanted a bet with you." He shrugged. "Figured it would make you smile."

Arya crossed her arms. _That means..._ She punched his shoulder, furious. "You... you..." She struggled for words. "You _Lannister!_ "

Tybolt snorted, cocking a brow. "Good observation, but not up to your normal standards, I'm afraid." Arya resisted the urge to hit him again.

"Making me feel guilty..."

"It was funny."

 _Oh, he didn't..._ "Oh, it was funny, was it?"

Tybolt froze. "Uhhh... Is it too late to say 'no'?"

"Is it too late to-" Arya cut herself off, pacing.

"I didn't even get hurt!" Tybolt caught himself, immediately realising his mistake. "Umm, it was just a bruise." Arya let out a breath through her nose, like a sleeping dragon. He flinched. "Look-" He hesitated, watching her warily. The sight gave her some satisfaction. "I'll uphold my end of the bargain. I lost so..."

Arya nodded, plucking out the spinning top. When Tybolt reached a hand out she gave it to him. He eyed the carving for a second.

Tybolt tapped the map idly. "Winterfell," he translated. "Home of the wolves."

"Home of the wolves..." Arya smiled to herself, forgetting she was supposed to be angry. No, furious. A kind of peace had settled over her.

Tybolt gripped his arm, looking rather small again. "I figured it would be nice if you had a bit of home with you down here." His voice was barely above a whisper. "It's stupid, but-"

"No." Tybolt looked up, and Arya smiled, wider this time. "It's not stupid. It's, um... it's actually really... nice. Thanks, Ty." _What do I do now?_ After a moment's hesitation she did what felt right and wrapped her arms around him, tucking his head under her chin. The soft _thump-thump_ of his chest against her's was calming, and her smile softened.

"Can you close your eyes for a minute?" The request was such a whisper that Arya almost didn't hear it, but she nodded and drew back, closing her eyes. Tybolt's touch left her. There was a soft breeze flowing in, rustling the leaves of the flowers on the windowsill. She heard the gulls crying, a cat screeching, the hustle and bustle of a thousand different merchants haggling their wares far below. The smell of the flowers filled her, perfuming the stench from the city streets. Arya felt a pressure, light as a feather, on her head. It barely kissed her hair. She reached up to touch it; Tybolt tapped her hand. "You can open them now."

A blue petal, almost a light violet, drifted before her. She held out a hand and caught it. The touch was as soft as anything Arya had ever felt, the scent sweet, but not strong. It tickled her nose a little. _Is this...?_

A crown of winter roses lay upon her head.

Arya often scoffed at Sansa for wanting such a stupid thing - what was the point of a crown that wasn't made of metal, that didn't last? - but the single moment, not really the crown, if she was being honest, but just the _everything_ : the tourney, the failure, the anger, the fear, the sweet relief... When everything mixed together it really was quite a peaceful moment. Not necessarily sweet, or romantic, or perfect - although she would think on it later and decide those were good words too - but at the time, peaceful was a good word for what she felt.

When she turned around Tybolt was smiling, watching her with some indescribable emotion. He bowed. "My lady." She tapped his arm half-heartedly with her fist, but then had an idea.

She gently lifted the crown and laid it atop his head.

Tybolt's let out a small laugh, more of a giggle, and adjusted the way it sat. The eyepatch made him look less like a lady, but wearing the winter roses countered the effect.

Arya bowed, grinning madly. "My lady," she echoed, drawing out Tybolt's giggle again. She drew him back into a hug, the two of them laughing quietly.

Yes, this was a peaceful moment, and Arya wished it would last forever.

* * *

 **Sorry to anyone who wanted immediately back into Tybolt's head, but that was a depressing place for most of the chapter. On his side of things, this chapter was about him starting to come back. Not a step-by-step, but he's in a much better place than Euron left him. Still, Euron will be back, I can promise that. It's just going to take a while.**

 **I left out the journey back for no other reason than it was a mostly silent journey between two people who have everything to say and no way to say it. Myrcella is still mostly stuck on the Destiny, and she can't hide it, but Tybolt has an outlet for his anger, confusion, fear and frustration in the tourney.**

 **Speaking of... I know he should never have gotten so far. I can say he has some experience, I can say he has the gods looking down on him, I can say he's one lucky bastard but the reality is he made it that far because my feels demanded it. I toyed with the idea of having him win but that was just too cliché, too cheesy, too everything.**

 **And no, Tybolt did not get the crown from Myrcella. I honestly have no idea where it came from, but Cella still has her's. Here is where headcanon comes in. It's up to you.**

 **Anyway, I'm rambling, so I'll just leave it here.**

 **Next chapter: A jackass and a honeycomb go into a brothel...**


	8. Chapter 8

**"I'm So Glad We Could Come To An Amicable Arrangement."**

 _His throat was burning with fire. His eye was burning with ice. The cold steel twisted and snapped away, and the blue sky shimmered into nothingness, with the fields of stained white sails, leaving all black._

 _"Those two, let them go. Kill the others."_

 _Now he was amidst a forest of white roots, cloaking the world in shadow. He stood before two bushels of roots, each gathered into a chair, or perhaps a throne would be a more apt description. One was empty; the other held a man in its grasp, twisting into his legs, his arms, bursting out of his chest and looping out of one eye to lock his head in place. His other eye was a ruby, inset amidst a face of white ice, like a weirwood. The man was old, that much he knew, ancient, even; the rest was hidden under that cloak of shadow, the only light the muted gleaming of the red sap on the white wood. Water dripped into puddles from the high, long stalactites, swords jutting down from the ceiling, hidden behind a shroud of black. The man was murmuring to himself, inaudible, and the only reply was from the small beings at his side, hissing in some unknown tongue. Suddenly he was spun around._

 _"Only two can have the third eye."_

 _Then he was falling, a golden man shining against the smoky clouds. "The things I do for love." His legs shattered beneath him-_

 _-and he was pushed to the ground, eyes closed. "Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!" 'Evil has a goal, an ambition. Something it strives for.' The cruel steel snapped above him._

 _He was sat upon a horse, watching a burning castle from afar. His heart broke with anguish, with anger and hatred, and his stomach ached something terrible. "I need you to do this for me." Tears trailed down his cheeks as he spun and rode off, his belly twisting again._

 _The black sky shadowed the two towers before him, half a hundred bodies swinging in the night breeze. A wicked satisfaction took his chest as he watched, resting the metal upon his head and twirling the white wood between his frozen fingers. "Yes... how very apt."_

 _His soft smile fell as he turned to the twin pyres, a missing third driving a spear through him. "Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!" The cruel steel flashed above him again-_

-and he gasped for breath as he shot up. His head was cold, despite the heat of the sun. Light streamed through the yellow hangings and he shivered, clutching his arms. _No, rub your chest. Your arms will heat up on their own._ His crown of sweat leaked, running in rivulets down his neck, his cheeks. He rubbed his eyelids dry and looked around.

The night terrors had gotten worse as of late.

 _Where is-_ He snatched the bottle from the table and swallowed a mouthful. The horrid tang woke him up; the wonderful aftertaste calmed him. He could feel his mind clear as he tried to recall his dreams. "There was... a weirwood," he muttered, idly strapping his eyepatch on. "A lot of them... and something about an eye... a man flying... he was made of gold- no, that was me, I was flying- no, _falling_..." He took another mouthful of Shade of the Evening. "Someone was executed... a burning castle and... bodies, lots of bodies. They were swinging; they'd been hung... It felt good. Too good." It scared him when he felt the emotions of the person he was dreaming of. Once he'd been chasing someone through the woods, bow in hand, and when his dogs ran them down and tore into them the feeling burned between his legs. He had woken up with the result, disgusted and unsatisfied. The next night had to have been the same person, because he had stripped the skin off of a finger and the screams were so... arousing. He hated that person. Whoever it was, they made him sick to the core.

It was better than the good people, though. One of them had been standing ankle-deep in snow, and when he turned he had been punched in the gut. The dagger had stayed where it was buried and the grizzled-faced man had whispered something that had made his soul bleed, the betrayal cutting right through him. Whoever the person was had only wanted to help people, people that the grizzled-face man had taken exception to. Another time he had been standing at the top of a group of steps, looking down at a man so hairy that it looked like a bear's fur. The betrayal had been even worse then, a deeper thing, a more final thing; whoever that person was felt as though they could never trust anyone again. The worst had to be the one amidst a group of people. He had not seen seen the traitor's face then - the person could not look at them - but he had been kneeling before them all, his hands so overflowing with coins they were pouring through his fingers.

Tybolt Lannister gathered himself, ignoring the laughter in his head, and sat properly on the bed, steadying himself with his hands. The cackling was painful. The side-effects of the Shade were not something he cared much for, but hearing voices for a few minutes, or seeing stormy rain disappear before it hit the ground on a hot day was better than the throbbing pain that came with the dreams. He could ignore the hallucinations, could tell they were hallucinations, but the pain was so overwhelming he could barely think, let alone go about his day. Still, he wondered what would happen when the side-effects became too real, when the Shade affected him as it should, instead of merely countering his dreams.

The black silk was smooth and cool as he slipped it on, the chanting _"Burn them all!"_ already beginning to fade.

"My lord?" The door opened slightly. A head slipped between the gap. A servant. "It is ti-"

"Out," Tybolt interrupted shortly. He hated people in his chambers, especially without his permission. The servant muttered an apology and closed the door.

He swiftly gathered up the rolls of parchment on his desk, curling them and slotting them into the vase. Sketches of the inner human body, compiled from information gained from corpses, would never escape the notice of someone taking even the most cursory of glances around the room. He knew the rumours, what was whispered among those who attended him. He took an interest in magic, he must be a black-hearted wizard, with foul sorcery in his grasp; he drew up plans for weaponry, he must be plotting a war so as to seize power from his grandfather; he surely cavorts with demons and Others and more foul things. _Aye, and grumkins and snarks too, I suppose?_ If one saw a diagram of a dead man they would think him a fell necromancer, put the pieces together, and decide that he was scheming to start a war for power with the risen dead for his army. _The mind of the simpleton is a wondrous thing_ , he thought dryly, _if a most irritating one._

Fear was the font of power, Tybolt knew. Love garnered loyalty, and wealth was influence incarnate, yet fear held it all together. _And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_

Still, too much fear turned to hate, and hate could unravel everything. Rulers could not let enough slip to superstitious peasants, lest the hatred grow too high. They had to be careful. It was one of the few things he disagreed with his grandfather on.

He quickly made sure no books or drawings or anything suspicious were visible, and called him in. A basket was in one of the boy's hands, with fruits for his table at the window, in the other was a pail of coal. Tybolt drew back the drapes and gestured for him to go about his work. He himself removed the cloak and set about dressing. When he was slipping into a red shirt of satin the servant had finished, then bowed and offered two letters. "Thank you," he said quietly. _And who are you, the proud lord said..._ "Come here." When he neared he took the boy's chin and committed him to memory.

The servant was younger than him, a wiry boy of ten or younger, with a mess of faded brown hair. He was pale, but brown with dirt, his hands blackened, though they left no stain. _I would never have believed they were clean._ His face was thin and sharp with wide brown eyes, the oddly bright gleam a contrast to the dullness that pervaded the rest of him. He was wrapped in mud-stained grey rags that looked more like an elephant's skin. His feet were bare.

The boy was looking up at him defiantly from under the brown mop. His fists were clenched, shaking. His shoulders were trembling ever so slightly. Still he kept watching him, stone-faced.

"Do I frighten you, boy?" That made the servant wince, blinking.

"N-no, milord," he said quietly. His voice was high but sweet, and he spoke clearly. Ordinarily Tybolt would never have noticed him, one servant boy among hundreds.

Tybolt gave him a hard stare. "Lying to me is a crime, boy. You do know that?"

The boy winced again, the trembling growing worse. _Oh, calm down, you little fool._ "S-sorry, mi-milord. I won't do it ag-again." _Best end this farce._ He let go of the boy's chin.

"What is your name?"

The servant swallowed, still not looking away. "Steffon, as it please milord."

Tybolt hummed to himself. "Steffon, if I were to ask you about the rumours regarding me, what would you tell me?" _Now his use will become apparent._

Steffon blinked. He looked halfway to lying, but shut his mouth at Lord Tybolt's glare. The boy licked his thin lips, finally looking away, before looking the lord back in the eye. "Well... Big Betha, in the kitchens milord, she says you keeps a knife from across the water. That you writes in demon's words on little things, and you puts them in people's pockets and puts spells on them. And Grelda, the chambermaid, she saws a drawing of big things that throw babes over walls. She says you wants a war, so's you can kills the old Lord Tywin and blame it on your - that is, Lord Tyrion - she says you takes the babes from Flea Bottom and keeps them up here." The boy's eyes widened even further; he must have realised he had said too much. "M-milord-"

Tybolt held up a hand. The boy fell silent. "Do you believe them?"

The boy's eyebrows rose. "No, milord!" He was no longer shaking, now stiller than the stone carvings of lions in the halls of Castamere, the red paint chipped and faded. "Never!" Usually Tybolt would not have believed it, but he was looking him in the eye, speaking clearly, and his pupils did not constrict - he wasn't lying.

Tybolt nodded. "Thank you, Steffon," he told him, smiling softly. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed. "You've been very helpful." The boy's face brightened, and his lips stretched wide. "I hope I can trust that if I need information in the Keep, I can trust you?" Trust was a strong word, but what was a little embellishment?

Steffon nodded vehemently. "Uh-huh! I mean, yes, milord." Tybolt patted his cheek and gave him a silver coin before sending him on his way. _But now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear..._

Tybolt turned and sat at the desk, inspecting the first letter. It was sealed in gold, a lion rampant. Tybolt had left Derryk Brighton as Castamere's steward in his absence, the third son of an aging vassal of House Reyne, Lord Ilyn of Falsewyre, a league south of Castamere. He was a young man, admittedly, only six-and-twenty, but exceedingly clever, and far beyond capable of running a household in its lord's absence. _If only Ilyn Brighton_ _shared his son's loyalties._ Tybolt broke the seal, removed the letter and snapped it against the air, cleared his throat and read.

 _My lord._

 _Your supplies have arrived. The second wall is under construction as I write this note to you. There is sufficient rock to build it and more, and the carpenters have begun fashioning them as ordered. Castamere should be returned to its former glory by your arrival._

 _If I may be so bold, my lord, I was surprised to hear that you would not be stopping at the castle before returning to the capital. That was before I heard of the whole sordid business, however._

"Not the _whole_ sordid business, Derryk," Tybolt muttered.

 _Although the pirates returned the supplies to the stronghold, so I confess myself confused. Regardless, we are all relieved to hear of your survival._

 _In less pleasant news, and it is with a heavy heart that I write this, my lord - your father has been kidnapped._

Tybolt blinked. "Kidnapped?" he murmured, stroking his chin. A sickening feeling bubbled in his gut.

 _Lady Catelyn Stark has taken him under suspicion of attempting to murder her son, Brandon. At the Inn at the Crossroads, Lady Stark snatched him in broad daylight, under the pretence of escorting him to Winterfell to await trial. However, despite her efforts, Gerrod spotted her heading east after her circling; how she expected a band of approximately a half-dozen to escape notice is beyond me._

"Lady Stark?" The sickening slowly caught flame, burning hotly. _She thought to steal a Lannister, announce it to the world, and she expects no reprisal?_ A snort burst from him as he snarled. The dwarf had no reason to want Bran dead. Why was it so difficult for them to accept the fact? The boy had fallen; it was bound to happen.

 _Her most likely destination is the Eyrie, and her sister Lysa Arryn. I do not believe Lady Stark aware of her sister's state of mind, but I would expect a lethal outcome for your father without interference._

Tybolt sighed, rubbing his head. Many stillbirths had left the poor woman's mind... fragile. Unstable, as it were. _And she fled after Lord Jon's death..._ Was he honestly going to have to pull the Imp's little feet out of the fire? Or rather, away from a six-hundred-foot drop?

 _Ser Talion anticipates your command, and as of this moment is readying the men._

 _Awaiting your reply,_

 _Derryk Brighton_

 _Steward of Castamere_

Tybolt calmly folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. Settling it atop the dozen-strong pile, he leaned back in his seat and laid his hands on the desk, the fingertips touching. To quell the burst of anger he let out a long breath, tapped the desk, and got up, snatching a quill and fresh parchment. _That wolf-bitch thinks to run off with a Lannister? Cart him off for execution? She may be half-mad with grief, but if he dies..._

 _Derryk,_

 _Inform Ser Talion to travel a few miles east of the Inn. He is to bring twenty good men. His best._

 _We are going to save my father._

 _Tybolt Lannister_

 _Lord of Castamere_

The journey felt longer than it took, as he strode swiftly through the halls, sword at his belt. "My lord Lannister," Petyr Baelish began, but Tybolt waved him off, speeding up.

"I have no need for whores, Littlefinger," he called back as he turned the corner, "but if I do, I'll let you know!"

The rest of the way he was unmolested, and marched into the ravenry so quickly that the poor man tending the birds yelped in surprise, but made no attempt to stop him. Tybolt took the first raven he saw, a particularly shining one in the third row, and sent it off with the letter.

"Sorry," he muttered, brushing past the man as he picked up his bird feed. He had a few calls to make. Thankfully, he spotted the servant that had just attended him at the end of the hallway. "Steffon!"

The boy turned, eyes wide. "Milord," he squeaked, quickly bowing. "Can I help-"

"I need my bag from my chambers - it's the one just aside the bed - could you get it for me, and take it to the stables? I'd be so thankful." Tybolt pressed another silver into his hand.

Steffon straightened up, trying to look older. "O'course, milord!" And he ran off in the opposite direction, his bare feet slapping against the stone.

 _Now I only have goodbyes._ The shiver down his spine was unnerving.

Arya was in her chambers, sweating from her lesson with Syrio. Tybolt found himself smirking at the state of her, breathing heavily on her bed, swaying Needle in the air. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, but she looked happier than she had in a long time. She was more graceful with the blade than when she had started the lessons, far more than Tybolt, but then, she took to water dancing like a duck to water itself. Not that he didn't enjoy the lessons himself, and they were helping, but the dancing around was a tad too chaotic for him. Syrio had helped him by focusing his training on precision; where to aim, using a shorter blade, like a long dagger, in his left hand to strike weak points, using the longer blade to deflect blows. He was no master swordsman, but he figured he could at least hold off his attacker until someone finished them off.

Tybolt leaned off from the doorway, chuckling. Arya jumped, hand to her chest and Needle shot out in front of her, until she recognised him. "What," he said, grinning. It was a little fake, but the humour was genuine. "Expecting Joffrey?" That had become almost a customary greeting between the two - when they were alone, anyway.

Arya shot him a dry glare, setting Needle on the bed. "You weren't at the lesson," she said, sounding put out. "I thought you gave up, but Syrio said you might've had something to do." She settled up, lying with her head resting on the pillow, which was propped up against the headboard. As Tybolt walked in she picked up a towel and put it to her face, rubbing furiously.

"He's a smart man," Tybolt told her, sitting on the chair and propping his feet up on the bed. Arya smacked his ankle with the towel, but he just grinned in reply. "I have to go." Arya looked at him curiously, rubbing her hair. It began to come out of its braid, falling over her face messily, and she blew at it idly. Tybolt laughed and took the towel, drying the hair and brushing it back with his hand. The skin was warm under his touch.

Arya nudged his foot with her knee, cocking her head. "Where? What do you have to do? When'll you be back? Can I come?" The light in her grey eyes grew with each question, shot one after the other, and he was loathe to disappoint her.

He nudged her knee back, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, but your mother will have my head right up with Tyrion's if she sees you riding up with me." Immediately he froze. Arya's eyebrows had disappeared beneath her fringe, the orbs wide, disbelieving. _Me and my big mouth. Nice work, little cub._

"You're going to see Mother?" Arya spoke even faster. Tybolt cringed as she drew her legs under her as she kneeled up. "Has she left Bran? Is she still in Winterfell? What was that about your father? Why are you going to see her?"

Tybolt sighed in a very put-upon way. _Why is it always me?_ "Yes, she's left Winterfell, and that's what I'm going to see her about. I can't say any more about it," he told her firmly, finger in the air, and Arya's mouth slowly closed. He could hardly tell her her mother had kidnapped his father. There was no real reason he couldn't that he could think of, but it just felt wrong to. "Still, I'll be gone a few weeks, at least. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. So you don't open some poor servant's belly looking for me." He was trying to distract her, and thankfully for _his_ belly, it worked.

"I would not!" she spat, slapping his leg.

Tybolt gave a look of betrayal. He gasped. "No? And there I thought you cared about me..." He sniffled, pouting.

Arya rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "You know I do," she said, before turning slightly red. Clearly she had not meant to put it like that. _Seems I'm not the only one who needs to watch what they say._ "I didn't mean it like that," she muttered quickly. "I meant... Oh, you're such a stupid!" she decided, growling.

"Stupid's an adjective," Tybolt drawled, checking his nails. _Hmm, the middle one's a little dirty._ He cleaned it idly, smirking. "Not a noun." This was getting fun. A laugh was building in his chest, making him grin. This was really getting fun.

Arya growled again, climbing off the bed and smacking his hand. "You _know_ I didn't mean that!" she told him hotly, fists clenched. A vein was throbbing in her collar, only making him grin wider. "You're a stupid," she told him again, seemingly out of insults. "A silly, cocky stupid!"

Tybolt cocked a brow, still grinning. "A stupid isn't a thing."

Arya looked vindicated, though she had gone redder. "Is so! I'm looking at one." She smirked, crossing her arms again.

Tybolt humphed. "So am I!" The childish retort was usually below him, but she was starting to rile him up. He couldn't logic his way out of this, and his heart thumped faster for it. But he couldn't think of any more childish things to say, so he just harrumphed again. "Alright, I'm a stupid."

"Ha!" Arya grinned widely, eyes glittering with laughter. She patted him lightly on the head. "Sorry, Lannister, but I win!"

That was it, though; he was a Lannister. The lion's pride flowed through his veins, so he thought furiously for something to embarrass his friend with. _Come on, mind, don't fail me now!_ But it did. He couldn't think of anything suitably embarrassing, and he was getting distracted by her brown hair flying around. He could not help but remember the crown of winter roses resting atop it, and grinned.

Arya stopped, looking at him warily. "What?" she demanded, grey eyes narrowed.

He had her now. Tybolt just grinned smugly. "Nothing." _I honestly have nothing, but the illusion means I've won._

"What!"

"Nothing," he repeated idly.

Arya's cheeks started to turn red again. "What," she said slowly. "Are you. Laughing at?" Her voice was low, dangerous, but he took no notice of it.

"Nothing at all."

"Tell me!" she snarled. "Or I'll- or I'll..."

Tybolt crossed his arms and grinned even wider. "Or you'll what?"

He found out what when he felt two hands on his face and something on his mouth.

Tybolt's chest gave a lurch. _What the..._ His eyes fluttered closed. Arya's lips were warm, and soft, for all that they pressed at his angrily. His face was squished in her grip, but he found himself rather... rather...

Arya drew back, flushing violently. "There!" she snapped, but quietly. Her hands dropped, fidgeting at her trousers. _Did she just..._

For no discernible reason that he could fathom, Tybolt cupped her face and kissed her back.

Arya made a sound of surprise, but her hands stayed at her sides. Tybolt could not quite place the taste, but he enjoyed it. He kissed again, a gentle press, inexpert. After a few seconds of inaction, Arya kissed him back. For some reason, that made it all the better. They stayed like that for a few seconds, awkwardly, before slowly drawing away, strangely breathless.

Arya was the first to speak up, a little choked. "That... you... what?"

"Sorry," he muttered hurriedly. He was blinking furiously for no reason at all; it just made pointless sense. "Took it too far..."

"No, no," she whispered, eyes wide and open. She was looking at him oddly, as if he were some sort of specimen she was about to cut up to look inside. "I started it. But what..."

Tybolt shrugged distantly, staring back at her. "I don't know. But then what about the..."

"I don't know."

"Should we think about this for a while?"

"About what?"

"This?"

"This what?"

Tybolt sighed. " _This!_ " He threw his arms up, looking around. "What was this about?"

Arya stammered, then hit him. Hard. "I don't know!"

"Then let's think about that!" Tybolt opened the drawer surreptitiously, fumbled around inside.

Arya cleared her throat. "Uh-huh. Talk about it when you get back."

"Uh-huh." Tybolt set the crown of winter roses on her head again. "See you when I get back." Lost for what to do next, he bowed and kissed her hand. "Your grace." He flourished away, red sable cloak whipping in the air, as he avoided an absentminded blow from Arya's fist.

 _What did I just do?_

Thankfully, Tommen and Myrcella were both in her chambers, just above his own. The drapes were still shut, cloaking the room in shadow, and Myrcella was reading aloud the story of the Blacks and the Greens to her little brother, who lay abed. Sweat dripped from Tommen's brow, and Myrcella paused to wipe it up. He was pale, and shivering, despite the heat and the layers of bedding that cloaked him. Tommen had been stricken with sickness soon after returning - nothing serious, but he had to be watched to show it didn't worsen.

Myrcella froze when she saw Tybolt enter the room. She sat the stained napkin on the bedside table and looked determinedly at Tommen's quivering face. She was wearing the green gown today, the one with the sapphires around her collar. The queen had had it sewn for her last nameday. He remembered the gleam in her emerald eyes, the way she seemed to light up and bring a smile to anyone's face for a week afterward. Tybolt thought of that time, and longed for it.

"Princess?" he said quietly. Myrcella did not look up, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Tybolt took that for acceptance, closing the door and walking over. "Is he any better?" Myrcella nodded, catching Tommen's hand as it fell from the bed. Yesterday the little prince had been shaking worse than Robert Arryn, whimpering and vomiting occasionally. Pycelle had needed to administer some sweetsleep, a deadly poison, but in small doses would carry one off to a dreamless daze.

Tybolt swallowed, a lump throbbing in his throat. He could feel the backs of his eyes prickle. _I am a Lannister,_ he told himself. _A lion of the Rock. Lions do not cry. We are proud. Hear Me Roar._ "I'm leaving for a while," he continued, his voice catching. "I need to take care of something. Something important." _Just say it, fool, and be done._ "Are you going to be okay?"

Myrcella stiffened. She still would not look away from Tommen's milk-white face, but he knew the tears were building up within her. She nodded faintly. He wanted more than anything to hold her close, stroke her hair and tell her it would be alright. His father could go bugger himself with a dagger. And if he didn't fear Myrcella slapping him and running, he just might. Instead he sighed, nodded, knowing she could not see him, and turned to leave.

When he reached the door Myrcella spoke. "Are you going to be okay?" Her voice was quiet, scratchy, as though she had refrained from using it since their return. It was a far cry from the sweet ringing that had been regaling her brother about Princess Rhaenyra being fed to Sunfyre at the tail end of the Dance. When Tybolt turned she was looking at him, settling Tommen's arm on the bed again. She swallowed thickly.

Tybolt stepped over. "Of course," he lied, smiling. "Who are you talking to?" Myrcella's lips twitched upwards, but her eyes began to water. _She knows I am lying._ He got down on one knee and, heart thumping in his chest, took her hand. It was soft and gentle beneath his own. She didn't flinch away. "Okay, maybe I won't be, but I need to do this. It's important," he repeated, still quiet.

Myrcella nodded slowly, squeezing his hand. Her smile dropped. "Please be okay. I don't want you to get hurt." She sniffled. "Promise me, Ty. Promise me."

Tears threatened to spill down Tybolt's face. _Hear Me Roar._ He dropped the other knee, clasped his hands together around Myrcella's, and looked her in the eye. Her gaze flickered for a second to the leather patch. "I promise I'll be okay," he told her, whispering. Myrcella nodded again. "Hey, look at me." He gave a small smile. "I promise."

When Myrcella squeezed his hands in acceptance he nodded and rose, smiling again before turning. "Ty?" He turned back. Myrcella was on her feet, shifting her weight. She was fidgeting with her fingers. "I keep remembering." She looked up at him. She looked small, a fragile little bird. "I can't stop remembering."

Tybolt took her hands again, ignoring the stabbing in his chest. He didn't feel guilty over the event, as he had expected. Or helpless, or angry, or determined or grief stricken or just plain scared. He felt nothing when he thought of Jonos Rivers, the Bastard Captain of the Destiny, or his motley band of smugglers, pirates, merchants and other thieves, good men all. He felt nothing when he heard a dozen throats being cut, the gargling as they slumped, felt nothing when Jonos screamed about the injustice in his ear at night, felt nothing when Martyn tipped overboard and the sea splashed every time he closed his eye. He was numb to it all, empty of emotion, save the overwhelming fear of Euron Crow's Eye.

"Look," he began, focusing on the soft warmth of Myrcella's hands, "I can't tell you to forget, or to stop feeling bad. That was a horrible day, and an even more horrible night. I would be lying if I said it won't stay with you forever. But what you can do is," he nodded to sleeping Tommen, "be here. When Tommen wakes up, he's going to want to see you, like I did. He's going to need his big sister if he's going to get better." A lie - Tommen's illness was simple; it came and went - but it was kindly meant. _And besides, she has that way of making someone feel better._ "Focus on that. Come in here, sit with him. Read to him about Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys, the tales of the Bloodraven, Ser Barristan the Bold and the Defiance at Duskendale. If it gets too much, go out and do whatever you want. But focus on things. Keep your mind off of it as best you can, and eventually it _will_ fade away."

Myrcella nodded, absorbing every word and squeezing his hands to show she understood.

"And Cella?"

"Hmm?"

Tybolt dropped her hands, instead cupping her jaw. Idly he stroked her cheek. "You're not alone, okay? You're my little sister, do you hear me?" He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "You're my little sister, and I love you. Promise." He kissed her head again and drew back.

Myrcella smiled, nodding. Her face was bright again, and she leaned into his hand. "I love you, too, big brother." She pressed her head into his chest. "Promise."

Tybolt stroked her back calmly for a while, before leaving for the stables. It would be no good telling his aunt; Cersei would rush to tell her twin, and when Uncle Jaime found out... He shivered. _His reaction will not bode well for anyone._ Steffon had been waiting for him at the stables, the courser well in hand.

"Thank you, Steffon," he told the boy, flashing a bright smile. The servant's face lit up. "But you didn't have to wait here." Steffon fidgeted with his roughspun trousers. Tybolt idly wondered if the mud was holding it all together, but tossed him a silver, regardless. Like as not, the boy had never held, nor even seen, so much money in his life. Tybolt winked as he mounted the horse. "A Lannister always pays his debts," he told him, trotting off down the street. In truth, he owed the boy nothing; he was a servant, it was his job - but having a loyal pair of eyes and ears in the capital would be useful.

It was a trick he had taken from Varys and his 'little birds'. There were few loyalties so strong as that of a child. Earn that loyalty, be generous and kind, and they would be yours forever. It was cold, yes, but Tybolt found himself smirking as he saw the look on little Steffon's face just before he turned the corner. Now it was time to ride for the Eyrie.

 _The Starks have shown their hand,_ he thought grimly. _Now they will see what happens when the lion is forced to show its teeth._

The journey was lonely without company, but it did not take long. He rode hard by day, slept in the nearest bed for sale. Once, on the third night, he had paid for a bed at a mill, and had awoken to find the owner and his wife rummaging for his coinpurse. The mill now lay abandoned.

He was only glad they had not searched his saddlebags. There was enough food to last a sennight, a flask of water, a spare knife, half a foot long, as well as a few books on the revolutionary technologies of man and his working materials.

He had brought his sketches with him, more for observation, but he had finished the one on the human body and began a new one for battle tactics, mostly within and around the Westerlands and the Iron Islands. Grandfather had told him that a lord should know the defensive capabilities of his lands and since the Greyjoys were still nursing their hurts over their failed rebellion...

Tybolt spent more of his time reading. The stories of how men and women thought up such creations as the mill and the forge, the different pastes that held stone walls together, and the histories of lost magical wonders from the likes of the Valyrian Freehold were fascinating. Still, it held a bittersweet taste. The place in the world most famed for its magical history, besides Valyria, was Asshai by the Shadow, but it was so far away that while Lord Tywin still lived he would never see it. _And Lord Tywin does not look ready to drop soon._

His thoughts often turned to the girl he had left in King's Landing. While he did not think that Arya hated him, exactly, he couldn't deny that when he returned, and her thoughts gathered, she would most certainly be wroth with him. _I took it too far._ The... incident, had been far from an unpleasant experience. Honestly, now that he thought about it, he rather enjoyed it; the taste, the feel of her lips on his, the feel _ing_ that had swelled in his chest, but it had been a joke at first. _I just had to keep going, didn't I? Couldn't stand down. Stupid Lannister pride._ It made fools of them all. He could only hope that he was right, and that she wouldn't hate him, even if a tiny part... no. No, just no.

And then there was Myrcella. Tybolt was definitely pleased with the way they had left it - he knew for certain that _she_ didn't hate him - but he worried about her. The memory of the ship stayed with her, and it always would. _She is too kind-hearted to move on from this._ He would not always be there for her, he knew. He couldn't be. She would flower and wed some high lord desperate for royal favour, and her protection would fall under her husband's prerogative. _But if he hurts her, well..._ Tybolt clenched his fist. _Accidents do happen._

It was on the fifth day that he reached the Inn at the Crossroads. Not stopping, he turned and galloped down the pathway with the sun in his face and his heart in his throat. The day before, he had come across a ruined, destroyed farm. Men were split in half, gutted, left hanging from the barn or the gate. There were women left dumped, sullied and bloodied, the positions of their bodies eerily suggestive of their fates. The grass, the dirt, the plain grounds from the house to the barn to the pigsty to the grazing fields, all of it was caked in blood. All of it, save for a single, blackened scattering of sticks, nay - bones, five metres wide, charred and scorched beyond recognition. It rested atop a fine pile of ash. The only thing Tybolt could see, besides the obvious grisly end, was that the bones were very small indeed.

Tybolt's face curled in disgust at the work of Ser Gregor Clegane and his pack of beasts, all clearly baying for blood. _Tywin Lannister's mad dog._ Tybolt was furious to the insult to his house, but unleashing the Mountain the Rides upon the smallfolk? That could only end in more bloodshed. _If Grandfather is not careful, he'll start a war. A real war._ It was a very real possibility, and the thought was not a welcome one. The kidnapping of a Lannister had to be answered, but inviting a war was... _unwise_ , unless...

 _By all the gods._ Tybolt was, and never had been, a particularly religious person - what kind of benevolent deity would allow a monster like Clegane to walk the world? - but the idea was oddly enticing at the moment. Did Tywin want a war? But what for? To eliminate the Starks? No, he wouldn't do that over Tyrion. Power, mayhaps? No, there was no point - just wait and Robert will die. Maybe... He shook his head viciously. He could not think properly, maybe later.

He did not have to wait long, sat atop a rock a few feet high, until his men arrived. Twenty of them, riding up the path on their horses, all in the armour of the soldiers of Castamere. Tybolt had taken the colours of House Reyne for his own, and so applied it to armour; the same red armour as his grandfather's men, but plated with silver in place of gold. All of them, save one.

Ser Talion Storm had been a travelling sellsword, chasing after bandit camps and fighting in tourneys with as much ferocity and determination as any knight, but remained a man of little renown until the tourney at Lannisport a few years back. It had been a smaller tourney, but with many a skilled sword, and many a man hoping to make a name for himself. Some had gone on to squire for proud houses, others faded into obscurity, but the Stormlander bastard had outfought all other competitors, proving so impressive that Tybolt had offered him the place of Master-at-Arms at Castamere, and Talion, while surprised, readily agreed. In truth, he had become Tybolt Lannister's right hand, displaying not only skill with sword, axe and mace, but also intelligence, loyalty and ingenuity. It was he who had suggested the second wall around Castamere, and that the subterranean level to the castle be rebuilt, with a little... surprise.

Aye, the man had proven his worth. _And I have never regretted raising him up._

"My lord," he called, grinning. His hair, black as pitch, blew in the breeze, matching in colour with his cloak and the gleam of his armour in the summer sun, a red lion roaring its defiance. _Red on black. Like the dragon._ Tybolt wished he could share his optimism. Instead he nodded grimly, hopping down from the rock.

"Ser Talion."

Storm's eyes glinted determinedly. "Twenty good men, my lord." He set a hand on the hilt of his blade, excitement rolling off of him in waves. "As you asked."

Tybolt Lannister mounted Brightroar and cast an appraising eye over them. Nineteen of them, sat dutifully atop their mounts, straightened when their lord's eye turned to them. For a second Tybolt wondered how they could stand the heat, trapped within their steel armour. _Gods know this leather is bad enough. Mother have mercy._ Regardless, they would do. He recognised Derryk, with his pale brown hair, whose strength and speed allowed him to make efficient use of the mace; Jacen, tall and broad-shouldered, with a double-bladed axe slung across his back; Cousin Martyn, Kevan's boy, even younger than Tybolt himself, but whose skill with a bow near equalled his own; the commoner Gerion, a man of five-and-twenty named for the Lost Lannister who travelled into Valyria and never returned, and his swordsmanship among the best in the Westerlands.

"Let's move," Tybolt said simply, whirling around and riding down the path.

It was near on an hour when they reached the Bloody Gate, and came face-to-face with Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. The man was, as usual, armoured in what looked like fish scales, painted black, but that was a fool's thought. His greying hair glinted slightly in the sunlight, and as he marched over to them his stubbled chin scrunched in undeniable disgust. The Blackfish was flanked by three men on each side, with at least two dozen perched on the cliffs above them, arrows knocked. It was a narrow passage, and if he decided they were not to leave, they never would. Not alive, at least.

The Blackfish's voice was low and gravelly. "Lannister," he said warily. His blue eyes narrowed and his hand rested on his blade. "What business have you-"

"You know what business have I," Tybolt interrupted, scowling. He had no time to quarrel words with tired old men. "Your... beloved niece kidnapped a member of my house, _unprovoked_ , might I add." The Blackfish's face twisted in anger, and he opened his mouth to argue. "Just give me the dwarf, unharmed, and no blood need be shed." _A fair proposition, no?_

Tully tightened his grip on his sword hilt. " _No blood need be shed?"_ he growled darkly. The men on the cliffs nocked their arrows. "Then just what, pray tell, is Clegane doing to my homeland right this second? Your _father_ ," he spat, and Tybolt's stomach lurched angrily. "Tried to kill my niece's son. Twice, aye. Break his back, ruin his dreams, then send some catspaw in the dark of night to slit his throat, kill Catelyn too." He gave a nasty smile. "Nay, Lannister. Your father-" Tybolt flinched and scowled. "-is going to pay for his crimes. Up there," he pointed to the Eyrie, high up on its mountain, "where Tywin and the Queen have no influence, where the Kingslayer can't draw his golden sword and demand his release." The smile widened. "It's time for House Lannister to realise that it is not free of the King's justice. Your family's all-powerful image is about to come crumbling down."

Tybolt breathed heavily through his nose. His blood was rising and his hand moved to the short, slim blade at his side. Then he had an idea. "The King's justice?" he asked, smirking. The Blackfish's smile slid from his face like water. "The King's justice, you say?" Tully nodded. The men behind him looked at each other confusedly. _Patience, friends._ "Do you take me for a fool, ser?" The Blackfish took a step forward.

"If you are about to impugn my honour-"

"Not _your_ honour, Ser Brynden," Tybolt interrupted dryly, holding a hand out in front, "but you seem to forget I know Lysa. And I know little Lord Robert, and I know that justice has no part in what is going on up there." Tully bristled. "Your niece is half-mad, as I remember. Stillborn after stillborn, it's taken its toll on her." He gave a mocking look of sympathy. "And she thinks some _mass conspiracy of Lannisters_ killed her husband, for some reason or other which I have heard no suggestion. Do you have any idea of why my family would have killed Jon Arryn, ser?" The Blackfish snorted.

"Same reason you tried to murder little Brandon," he growled. "He found out something he wasn't supposed to."

 _Shit._ But Tybolt scoffed. "It's possible," he allowed airily, not dropping his smirk, "but does Lysa even care? Does she?" he asked the gathering of soldiers. "Does Lord Robert? Last I checked, she still fed him at the breast. He's _nine years old_ ," he spat, sneering down at them. "Nine! I was at Winterfell not long ago, as you no doubt remember, and I knew little Rickon Stark. Half his age and twice the man. In King's Landing Robert wouldn't stop going on about how his father 'made bad men fly'." He said the words in Robert's slow, lazy lisp. "It was all he wanted to see." Tybolt felt his face twist. "Tyrion's guilt or innocence matters nothing to them, _either of them!_ The only way this ends, the only way I will let it end, is if he walks out of here, by my side, alive and unharmed. I will take him to King's Landing, where he actually has _some_ chance of justice being done." A lie, to tell it true, but if it helped... "And the raping of the Riverlands will end," he promised, adding another lie for good measure.

The Blackfish deflated, pursing his lips thoughtfully. Eventually he swallowed and looked up at Tybolt. "Lysa won't let that happen," he said defiantly, if a little depressed. "She won't let the Imp walk out of there."

"Oh, I rather think she will. She will if I give her the right incentive," Tybolt drawled, smirking down at him. "One little man for another."

The Blackfish puffed up furiously. "If you think I'm going to let you in here to threaten my lord and steal away our prisoner, you have another thing coming, _boy_." His hand twitched, the blade jerking slightly in its scabbard. The air thickened.

 _Shit_. He had gone too far. But Tybolt just chuckled. "I'm not going to _kill_ the little shit," he said honestly. _I need to give him the advantage._ "Tell you what, Blackfish - you can even keep most of my men." He glanced back. "Fifteen of them. I take the remaining five up to the castle, for protection. We have no chance of getting away with such a threat with our lives then, do we? And if something happens, and we die, or little Robert or Lysa or Catelyn die, then you can kill these men. Leave one to deliver the message. Does that sound reasonable?" _Come on, you old prick, come on. You hold the cards... at least, if you buy my story._

The Blackfish breathed deeply, and nodded. "Alright, then, Lannister," he growled, leering up at him mistrustfully. His jaw was set and the grip on his sword tighter than ever. "You can pass. Six of my men will accompany you, to make sure you keep to your end of the deal. If I hear of one of those men dying-"

"My own men die," Tybolt finished, smiling widely. "One by one." He climbed down from Brightroar, tethered him to a rock. "I'll even leave you with my horse."

Tully snorted. "I'm honoured," he grunted.

Tybolt picked out Martyn, Gerion, Jacen, Derryk and Talion. They climbed down and flanked him, two on each side and Talion right next to him. Tybolt smiled lazily at the grizzled old man. "I'm so glad we could come to an amicable arrangement," he drawled. "Tales of your valour have reached one end of the continent to the oth-"

"Shut up," the Blackfish snapped. "Take your men and go." He gestured for six of his own to accompany them.

They hadn't reached halfway up the long pathway before those six men found their throats cut from ear to ear and their bodies dumped over the side.

* * *

 **Aaaaaand cut.**

 **Longer than usual, but get this - it was supposed to be longer. This chapter was meant to include the confrontation in the Eyrie, but it just felt too rushed to do. I'm going to leave that for Tyrion next chapter.**

 **Speaking of rushed... the King's Landing stuff may have felt that way, but I was trying to wrap things up with the Season One storylines for Arya and Myrcella, considering we won't be seeing either for a while.**

 **Anyway, lots of important stuff introduced this chapter, stuff that will be important later on (promise, this isn't going to be a repeat of shoulda-been-key-character-but-killed-off-next-chapter-because-he's-really-a-redshirt Captain Jonos Rivers. Pinky promise.) Along with some kinda maybe prophetic dreams, and glimpses into the past, too. We've got Euron and Bloodraven and Ramsay and Dany/Jorah... as well as some other stuff I don't want to spoil. Some of it's relevant, some isn't.**

 **Oh, before anyone starts - the pathway Tybolt reneged on the deal is that looooong pathway hanging over the hundreds of feet drop into blackness. The one where you can barely fit two people side to side. The one that's so far away from the Bloody Gate that you can't quite see what's happening. That one. It's in every photo of the Eyrie.**

 **Anyway, see you next time!**


	9. Chapter 9

**"We'll _H_ _ave_ To Do This Again Sometime. It's Been _S_ _uch_ Fun."**

No offence to the late Lord Arryn, but Tyrion hated the man's wife. He was so cold he could almost feel frost pricking his skin, he was more starved than he could ever remember being, and above all else he really wanted to kill his fat, thickheaded, sadistic gaoler. In hindsight, it may have been a bad idea to say he would kill Mord himself, when the simpleton could throw him out to the blue as easily as he might flick a fly off his arm, but Tyrion found it hard to care. He cared more about his dinner, his plate of cold beans flying hundreds of feet under him and out of sight even had he cared to look. Yet it had either been that, or risk the giant oaf 'accidentally' bumping him off the edge with that large belly of his.

Tyrion would take the cold, hungry, slowly-driven-to-madness alternative, thank you very much.

The wind teased his thin blanket, and him along with it. Only five feet from wall to cliff, a particularly strong blast could tug the Imp away and send him splattering into the rocks below, nothing more than a brighter splotch of red, scarlet amongst a sea of russet. He wished he were stuck in the Black Cells, just slightly warmer, with no fresh air, no lovely blue sky and bright sunshine above him, and no moon and stars winking away happily at night, but at least he needn't worry about falling off the edge in his sleep. Still, if nothing else, he was allowed to leave whenever he wanted. That was the level of grace Lysa Arryn had shown him. Indeed, any prisoner could escape their captivity, so long as they had the desire.

Of course, a pair of wings would not be amiss, either.

 _Gods save me,_ was written above Tyrion's head, _the blue is calling._ How long had the poor fool been here?

In fact, how long had _he_ been here? And how had the prisoner left? How would _he_ leave? Tyrion did not particularly want to know the answers, save for the last.

Near on twoscore days had passed since Catelyn Stark had taken him prisoner, thirty-something days since he had known freedom. Thirty-something days since he had been branded a child's would-be assassin and kidnapped to be 'sentenced'.

And now Tyrion looked up at a skinny, sickly-pale, shaking six-year-old from under his swollen shelf of brow. A stuffed doll was in his hands, and his eyes were rheumy as they watched the stunted monster from atop his stack of soft fat pillows. His mother had an arm around him, perched hawkishly on the weirwood throne, shaking as much as her son, though from anger rather than illness. What had Tyrion done to deserve such hate?

 _Oh, of course,_ he remembered dryly, _same as I did to my sweet sister. Be born a dwarf. How great and terrible a crime._

"Is that the bad man?"

"He is," Lysa Arryn had agreed, draped in blue. She wore more perfume and powder than Varys the Eunuch; it tickled Tyrion's nose.

The Lord Paramount of the Vale giggled happily. "He's so _small_." The boy's mouth stretched oddly with each word, and for some reason it set Tyrion's jaw in place.

Lady Catelyn had remained stiff and silent, watching Tyrion with a quiet fury that burned through her Tully-blue eyes. Her sister, however, was not to be distracted. "This is Tyrion the Imp," she told her son, "of House Lannister, who murdered your father." She turned and leered at the Imp, raised her voice so it carried down the length of the High Hall of the Eyrie, ringing off the milk-white walls and the slender pillars, so every man could hear it. _"He slew the Hand of the King!"_

A pang of anger shot through Tyrion, and he snarked, "Oh, did I kill him, too?" First little Bran Stark who never stopped climbing, now the Lord of the Eyrie, Lord Paramount of the Vale, Warden of the East and Hand of the King. Or rather, the other way around. _My standards seem to have fallen so sharply in so short a space of time._ He could not keep the bitterness from his tongue. "It would seem I've been a busy little fellow." _Quiet, you fool!_ Yet he continued. "I wonder when I found the time to do all this slaying and murdering." He immediately regretted it.

The Lady Lysa glared down at him hatefully, her sister stiffer than ever. "Imp," Arryn warned slowly, "you will guard that mocking tongue of yours and speak to my son politely, or I promise you-"

But what Lysa Arryn promised, he would never find out, for at that second the doors burst open behind him, and in marched men clad in red and silver clutching bows already nocked with arrows. When Tyrion spun, he saw the roaring lion on their shields, his heart leapt, a grin spreading wide across his squashed face.

Then it sank as he saw his son at their head.

Sword-slim and pretty as ever, the boy's smirk stirred an old sadness in him, which was replaced by horror at the leather patch over his blue eye. _Her_ eye. When had that happened? _How_ had that happened? A thousand possibilities ran instantly through Tyrion's head, each worse than the last. Clad in dark leather armour, he leered up at Lysa and little Lord Robert, a hand on the hilt of his slim blade. It was sheathed in a smoke-grey scabbard that ill-fitted it, just a tad too tight, but loose enough that he could pull it out at a moment's notice.

Ser Talion Storm was by his side, all hair like pitch and eyes like stars, stood sentinel beside his master. Loyal as a dog, he was, and with a thirst for ale to rival his skill on the field; there were few others Tyrion would trust more with his son's welfare. _My son's. Mine. Not yours._ Behind them were a group of arrows, all aimed at the little Lord Robert.

"Let's make this as easy as possible," Tybolt Lannister chose for his greeting, ever-smirking as always, but there was something off about it. There was a tightness in his stance, a warning in his voice; his entire being screamed the threat and his green eye, once calculating but kind, was now outright colder than ice. "I do so _despise_ the sight of blood."

Lysa Arryn immediately shot to her feet. "Wha-ho- _how did you get in here?"_ she demanded furiously, glancing behind them for guards to rush in. "Guards! _Guards!"_ Yet no one came.

A low chuckle escaped Storm's lips, and he cracked his neck in a satisfied manner. There was a spot of red on his cheek that Tyrion did not think was wine. Lysa turned frantically to the knights already in the room.

"What are you _waiting_ _for!"_ she screeched. She pointed a bony finger at Tybolt. "Kill him! Kill them all!" Around a score of swords rang through the heavy air as they slipped from their sheathes. Tybolt only wagged a finger, as though they were exceptionally-misbehaved children. A few were as old as Jon Arryn had been, faced with the horrors of war and death since their birth.

"I wouldn't," he suggested lightly, though his leering gaze betrayed the danger of the position. "Lest you _want_ me to kill your lord here and now? Shall we see what fish are made of when they spend their lives out of water?" His smile cut through the air. He was clearly aiming for a protracted silence, but that was ruined.

"You can't hurt us!" Robert Arryn screamed. He was on his feet and red in the face. He had dropped his doll and was beginning to twitch. "No one can hurt us here! Tell him, Mother, tell him he can't hurt us here!" Lysa began to nod vehemently and declare that the Eyrie was impenetrable, though that had little to do with the situation. _Brat_ , Tyrion thought idly.

Clearly his son thought the same, and he was quite irritated by the interruption. Tybolt dropped his smirk and looked coldly up at the boy. "Little brat," he muttered angrily, before raising his voice. _Gods, boy, don't do that!_ "I hold the future of the Vale in this finger." He held up his left pointer, and his men pulled their arrows back just a little tighter, the creaking reverberating off the high marble pillars, like the cracking of a thousand bones. "No, wait." He smirked again, sharp as steel. " _You_ do." He glanced around. "My dear lords and ladies, knights and squires, merchants and household. The future of your lives, and that of your children and their children, is in your hands. You can kill us here and now, to be sure. Cut off my head and send it to my grandfather. But before you do both the Lord of the Vale and his lady mother will be dead." He twitched his finger slightly, not even an inch, and gave a tiny amused sound at Lysa's flinch. "Now, no doubt that would ease your daily suffering of this horrific shit and the madwoman that spat him out, but who does that leave? As I recall, Robert's heir has not yet been chosen. With no lord to succeed him the Vale will fall into anarchy, _civil war_ no less. Contestant after contestant will fight it out, more will rise, more will fall and even more opportunists will vie for that admittedly stylish wooden chair." Tybolt looked around, a single elegant brow raised in condemnation. "Thousands upon thousands will die." He spoke slowly, his high tones ringing as the men and women gathered began to realise the picture being painted. "You will die, your children will die. Friends and brothers and sisters and cousins and all their fucking horses will tear each other apart and yet, this can be avoided. This needn't be your fate. If the dwarf comes with me no one needs to die. Thousands needn't be impaled on spears or have their heads decorating castle walls." He turned his gaze to Catelyn Stark, who watched him intently. "I'll even stop my grandfather's raping of your homeland. That sounds like a sweeter cup to drink from, than a cup of sorrow, no? A cup of tears. A cup of death."

The lords and ladies were silent, the pale colours they dressed in likening them to ghosts, fading into the background. The knights had not advanced. Catelyn Stark let out a furious breath through her nose, but remained otherwise quiet, stone-like and statuesque. And Lysa Arryn was shaking worse than her son, leering down at Tybolt with such a rage that Tyrion feared failure.

But she eventually sighed, and crumpled defeatedly onto her throne. "Get out," she whispered, holding a confused Robert tightly. The doll lay forgotten on the floor. "Get out and take that monster with you."

Tyrion quickly waddled over to his son, stopping only to let Mord release him with a grunt of displeasure. "You free," he grumbled in his simpleton's language.

The dwarf grinned. "Me free," he agreed, though he patted the giant on the shoulder. His shackles clanked loudly as they hit the stone floor, and Tyrion rubbed his wrists gently as he hobbled behind Tybolt.

His son spread his arms wide and bowed deeply. "We'll _have_ to do this again sometime," he drawled, grinning. "It's been _such fun_." He turned, stopped, and looked to Lady Stark. "Do send Robb my regards."

Once Tybolt and Tyrion had swept from the hall, Talion had the men relax their bows and follow.

* * *

 **And there we go. Shorter than usual, but I felt like this was a good place to end it. And besides, I need to do some research for the next chapter.**

 **As for how Tybolt was able to reach the High Hall of the Eyrie undetected, well... they weren't undetected. This is kinda the point of 'twenty good men' - they act as a sort of spec ops team; one goes in, takes out one, another takes out a second, and so forth, and they make their way quietly through the castle. And aside from the 'honour guard' no one was killed.**

 **As for Bronn, he followed them and joined up, just to be clear. He offered his services and Tyrion took him up on it. It's not as logical as in canon, but for the first few seasons you can't have Tyrion without Bronn. Please just suspend your disbelief.**

 **Next chapter: Meeting with Tywin, a discovery is made, and an army rides out for home.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary: Tybolt and Tyrion struggle to connect. Tywin declares war. Plans are laid.**

 **"We Will Not Pacify the Tullys. We Will Not Pacify the Starks. We Will Not Pacify the Arryns."**

"I like this not," Talion muttered, passing the water back to Tybolt. The little lord felt the leather bend and melt together between his fingers, ripe from age. The water was clean, however, and somewhat cool as it washed down his throat. "Three thousand tribesmen. Three thousand _wildlings_ ," the ranger spat, his lip curling in disgust. "The Black Ears cut off their slain foe's pissing ears as trophies, the Burned Men burn _themselves_ , and that Shagger fellow!"

"Shagga."

"Whatever. How many times has he threatened to geld Lord Tyrion over our journey? We don't even have any goats to feed manhoods to!"

Tybolt snorted and kicked Brightroar into a trot. His grandfather's camp was as proud and strong as their house; a sea of blood and gold sweeping further than he could make out, covering the deep canyon, up and over the green hill in the distance, the roasting yellow sun beating down on them. A bustling fortitude of power, spearmen here, archers practising there, and in more than a few spots he saw swordsmen hacking at each other. As they neared the camp the sounds of steel clashing, boots thudding and men shouting enveloped them. Tybolt glanced to Ser Talion as they climbed down and passed their horses off to a stableboy, nodding to Tyrion trying to calm Shagga son of Dolf from splitting the belly of the boy who came to take his horse. He had snorted, but silently worried. _Three thousand wildlings marching before us, beside us, behind us. And that mad fool thought it good to bring them with us._ Now, truth be told they would be useful, now that they were on their side, but if Lord Tywin refused to uphold Tyrion's end of the deal... _The debt is Tyrion's to pay._

He marched over and pulled the Imp away from his toy soldiers. "You know what will happen if Grandfather leaves the wildlings to you," he warned in a low tone.

Tyrion just grinned up at him. His ugly face split in a dozen places, and his mismatched eyes glittered. "Yes, yes, Shagga will feed my manhood to the goats. All very deadly and serious, but the real question remains." A hand gripped tightly around Tybolt's wrist, pulling him to a stop. When he turned, the grin was gone. "What happened to you?"

Tybolt watched him for a moment, and sighed. The same question, over and over throughout their journey. _What happened to you? What happened to you? What happened to you? What happened?_ He tore his wrist from Tyrion's grasp, turning away from him. A part of him had screamed every time the question fell from the dwarf's lips, tearing at his chest. _What do I say to a man I cannot speak to? How do I make him understand?_ How could a drunk and a whoremonger understand the feeling of cold steel through his body, surrounded by death? The loss of half his sight the gain of something even greater and being left with a cryptic message? _How can I give Euron a crown? Why would I?_ It made no sense.

The hand slid into his own, and squeezed. When he turned those awful features were twisted into something that could almost be called sympathetic. "It is a terrible thing, mutilation." The Imp's voice cracked. "It leaves you feeling never whole, always incomplete." He unconsciously shifted his weight in a waddle, his too-large head cocking to the side. "And the world will never forgive you for it. You can't change that. What you can do is take that hole inside you and make it your own. Take that weakness and make it your strength. For how can the world harm you with your own armour?" Tyrion squeezed his hand again, a silent beg. "I know how that feels."

Tybolt looked down at him, something welling up inside him, and he found himself wanting to say it. To just tell him. Share this pain and move on. But instead he pulled away, turned and hissed at the Imp, "You know nothing." _How does he know? How can he possibly know? He was_ born _like that; he never lost anything! And he has the gall to..._

Tyrion's face fell, and at one instance looked like a child - confused, betrayed, hurt even. But then the facade of innocence dropped, and that ugly face twisted into something terrible, monstrous. When he spoke his voice was clear and cold. "As you will, my lord. But do try and not let my father see that eyepatch, will you? It will not do for the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West to be even more... imperfect. You are weak as it is, boy," he snarled, "and no strip of leather will cover that unsightly hole in your face." Tyrion turned, enraged, and waddled off with his head high.

Tybolt winced at the reminder, raising a hand to reach under the patch and feel at the ragged tears in his flesh, and at once was filled with regret. _I should not have said that. Stupid fool! You can't even handle gentle advice? Control yourself!_ He cast himself back to his years in the maester's study.

* * *

The sunlight was dimmed by the cotton over the windows, casting a shadow over the room. Dusty books lined the shelves, and Tybolt had long since memorised them all; the third shelf from the top the fifth row down was filled with the detailed histories of each of the Kingdoms, from House Yronwood in Dorne to Umber in the North and a particularly large tome dedicated to a as complete as possible a history of each head of House Lannister, from King Loren the Last, who fled the Field of Fire to bend the knee to the invader Aegon the Conqueror, to King Tommen II, who travelled to the Ruins of Valyria with the fabled Lannister sword Brightroar at his back and a veritable army by his side. Tommen was never seen again, and neither were his ships, nor Brightroar. The histories went all the way back to theories on the truth of Lann the Clever from the Age of Heroes, said to have stolen the sun's rays to adorn his golden hair and swindled the Casterlys of their Rock, which would go on to become the seat of Lann's descendants - Tommen the Lost, Loren the Last, Tywin the Shield of Lannisport and, one day, Tybolt, Tywin's grandson. _What will they call me?_

Tybolt was curled up in the corner, a book open on his legs. _'A Comprehensive History of that Dread War known as the Dance of the Dragons',_ by Velwyn, Archmaester of History. In it, Velwyn argued that neither Rhaenyra nor Aegon would have made anywhere near a decent monarch, owing to their capriciousness, self-righteousness, capacity for violence and tendency to be manipulated. He laments the mental state of King Aegon III 'the Broken King', and attributes his coldness and inability to find joy in anything to the vicious manner in which his mother was executed and the war itself, in particular the deaths of countless friends and family, but praises his attempts to hold together a 'broken realm, which forged a Broken King'.

Tybolt smiled at a picture, a small-scale painting of the battle between Lucerys and Aemond atop Arrax and the ancient Vhagar, mount of Visenya, above the rushing waters and violent storms of Shipbreaker Bay. The exact moment when Vhagar, five times the size of Arrax, threw the younger dragon and its rider down to the sea, where they would later resurface at Storm's End.

"An interesting book, and a controversial take on the matter." Father tried to sit down, but a malformed leg seized up and he fell. The boy reached over but Father waved him off, laughing through the pain as he sat up. "A fool never learns," he muttered. "And neither do dwarves, apparently. Now, the greatest Dance of all, and a man who enraged lords and ladies across the kingdom. There are only four copies of that book in existence, you know."

"Really?"

Father smiled and pulled him in. "Yes. The original sits in the Citadel of Oldtown, one copy resides within the Red Keep - there used to be three, before Aerys the Mad ordered them all burned for lies and heresy, and one of those three was hidden by a nearby servant boy - one copy made its way across the sea to somewhere in Essos. It could be in Volantis, or Qarth, or even Yi Ti for all I know, and the last copy... is right here in your hands." He took the book and brushed his fingers across the image. "You didn't answer my question." He smiled down at the child. "What do you think?"

Tybolt shifted awkwardly in his Father's arm. "About Rhaenyra and Aegon?"

"Mmm."

He took a breath. "I agree with Velwyn."

Tyrion cocked his head. "Oh?"

Tybolt licked his lips nervously and nodded. "They weren't nice people," he declared, with all the certainty of a boy who had seen all of seven namedays.

His father laughed quietly. "Most kings aren't. Aerys wasn't. Aegon wasn't. Robert isn't."

"But... Robert's king?" Father nodded. "And he's not nice?" Father nodded again. "Then he shouldn't be king."

Tyrion laughed again. "Is that so?" he asked, smirking.

"Yes!" Tybolt scowled. "Only nice people should be kings."

His father smiled and ruffled his hair. Tybolt shook away and straightened it, giggling. "Well, the world would certainly be a better place if kings were nice people." Tybolt nodded frantically. "But they don't get to be nice."

"Why not?"

Father's smile faded slightly. "Because there are lots of bad people in the world. Cruel people. One of a king's duties is to be the right kind of cruel."

Tybolt was confused. "A king should be cruel?"

"Yes." Father smiled. "The kind of cruel that stops his people from being even more so."

"I... think I understand. A king should be nice to nice people, and not-nice to not-nice people."

"Good." Father stroked his cheek. "A lord needs to do the same thing, you know."

Tybolt's eyes widened, then he nodded. "Like a king, only smaller."

"Exactly. Just look at your grandfather." When Tybolt's brow furrowed Tyrion sighed, and smiled. "Back when your grandfather had hair-" Tybolt hid his giggling "-yes, he had hair, once, and back then some bad people wanted to take power away from us and keep it for themselves, and your grandfather crushed that rebellion and stopped them."

"Where are they now?"

Father hesitated here, and spoke slowly, picked his words carefully. "Well, they're... not around anymore."

"Why not?"

Father hesitated again. "I'll tell you when you're older."

"But-"

"But nothing!" Father's voice took on a hard edge. "I will tell you when you're older."

Tybolt swallowed and nodded. "Promise?"

"I promise."

* * *

 _What happened to those days?_

When Tybolt slipped past the door and into the Inn at the Crossroads he stood straight and marched over to the war council with as much dignity as he could muster. Well, in truth it was Lord Tywin and Ser Kevan sharing a flagon of ale as they discussed plans; they must have only recently settled, else the rest of the lords would be here. When he spotted his grandson Lord Tywin rose to his feet.

"Tybolt."

Tybolt bowed, just deep enough to show appropriate respect. "My lord," he murmured, noticing that Tyrion was quite visibly busying himself with his father's flagon. When he straightened up he looked straight into his grandfather's eyes. Green eyes, bright as emeralds, and flecked with bits of gold which blazed when he was angry, shone lightly when he was amused, and dimmed when he was calm. They were dim now, like the golden whiskers at his cheeks. Those whiskers were the only hair left on his head, having commanded his thick head of hair shaved when it began to thin, and kept his face razored smooth, save his bold whiskers, to add to the lion's image. Ever the very painting of propriety, Lord Tywin was dignified, strong and proud. _As a lion should be._ Ever since he first met him, Tybolt had wanted to emulate his grandfather in everything; the most respected lord in Westerosi history, beloved by his own, feared by his foes. The annihilation of Houses Reyne and Tarbeck had shown the Seven Kingdoms how Lord Tywin Lannister dealt with traitors.

"Grandson," Lord Tywin said, his voice deep and imperious, commanding attention. Tybolt instinctively focused. "I see the rumors of your ordeal were not unfounded." Tybolt winced inwardly. _Knifecoldkilldeathknifecoldkilldeathknifecoldkilldeathknifecoldkillde-_ "And yet it seems you came out the stronger for it. And the bolder, if that stunt at the Eyrie is any indication." _Stunt?_ Tybolt could not help but feel a little indignation.

He found his voice. "With all due respect, my lord," he began, sounding stronger than he felt. Tywin cocked a brow, as if to dare him. "I infiltrated the Eyrie, made my way through a place I knew nothing about, marched into the throne room, threatened their lord and his mother, grabbed their most hated prisoner and walked right out with only a dozen casualties. None of which, might I add, were my own men! I lost nothing and achieved my goal, just as you taught me-"

"No, it was _not_ 'just as I taught you'." Lord Tywin's voice was low, calm and collected, but those eyes of his were blazing furiously. He seemed to loom over Tybolt, who glanced to Uncle Kevan, watching them intently. Tyrion still did not look at them, focused on his ale. "You knew nothing about the Eyrie, as you said. What you did was recklessly march up to a complete unknown, slaughter your honor guard - yes, those missing soldiers were noticed - walked into a room filled with powerful men and women who despise you, threatened their lord and his mother, stole their most hated prisoner and managed to sneak away before they realised your treachery." Lord Tywin's lip curled. "If the Blackfish had realised what you had done-"

"But he didn't-"

" _Silence!"_ Lord Tywin took a breath. "If the Blackfish had realised that you had murdered your guard then you, Tyrion and everyone else in your party would be _dead!_ " He turned away, and sat back down. "You placed yourself at risk, committed a treachery that will not be easily forgotten and escaped by the skin of your teeth." Lord Tywin's features did not exactly soften, but there was less anger in him than before. "But you did accomplish your goal. Tyrion _is_ alive. Your soldiers _are_ alive. _You are alive._ And you succeeded." He took the flagon from Tyrion's hand, poured a goblet and held it out. After a second's hesitation Tybolt took it and sat down, helping himself, and almost recoiled in disgust. The ale was brown and yeasty, and so thick you could almost chew it. _Finer fare than I had on the road, however._

After a moment's silence the Imp spoke up. "Well, now that my spawn has been thoroughly chastised, might we get back to business?" He did not wait for an answer. "How _is_ the war going?"

"Your brother has been covering himself with glory," Lord Tywin said, no small hint of pride in his voice. "He smashed the Lords Vance and Piper at the Golden Tooth, and met the massed power of the Tullys under the walls of Riverrun. The lords of the Trident have been put to rout. Ser Edmure Tully was taken captive, with many of his knights and bannermen. Lord Blackwood led a few survivors back to Riverrun, where Jaime has them under siege. The rest fled to their own strongholds."

"Your father and I have been marching on each in turn," Ser Kevan said. "With Lord Blackwood gone, Raventree fell at once, and Lady Whent yielded Harrenhal for want of men to defend it. Ser Gregor burnt out the Pipers and the Brackens..."

"Leaving you unopposed?" Tyrion asked.

"Not wholly," Ser Kevan said. "The Mallisters still hold Seagard and Walder Frey is marshaling his levies at the Twins."

"No matter," Lord Tywin said. "Frey only takes the field when the scent of victory is in the air, and all he smells now is ruin. And Jason Mallister lacks the strength to fight alone. Once Jaime takes Riverrun, they will both be quick enough to bend the knee. Unless the Starks and the Arryns come forth to oppose us, this war is good as won."

Now felt like a good time to intervene. "My lords," Tybolt interrupted, and Lord Tywin raised an eyebrow. Ser Kevan looked attentive and Tyrion seemed to find his cup very interesting. "The purpose of this attack was the return of Tyrion." The Imp winced at his name, and glanced up, scowling. Tybolt paid him no heed. "Tyrion is returned. Surely now is the time to cease hostilities..."

"No," Lord Tywin told him, with a voice as hard as steel. "This war has begun in earnest. Eddard Stark is our prisoner, sleeping in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. His whelp pup has taken to the field, as only an untempered child is like to. No doubt he likes the sound of warhorns well enough, and the sight of his banners fluttering in the wind, but in the end it is down to butcher's work. I doubt he has the stomach for it."

Tybolt leaned back in his seat, swirling his ale. _Robb has gone to war?_ He thought of that cheerful, joking boy from Winterfell, and considered him covered in blood, a man's corpse at his feet. _I can't imagine it. Robb is too..._ But then, only a manner of weeks ago he had cut a man's throat and dumped him in the ocean, then rode back to King's Landing with a smile on his face and lies dripping from his lips. _Myrcella has not yet recovered, and she may never yet. Yet a part of me... wants more. What does that say of me?_

Tyrion, however, just asked, "And what is our fearless monarch doing whilst all this 'butcher's work' is being done?" he wondered. "How has my lovely and persuasive sister gotten Robert to agree to the imprisonment of his dear friend Ned?"

"Robert Baratheon is dead," Lord Tywin told him. "Your nephew reigns in King's Landing."

"Joffrey?" Tybolt asked, incredulous. _Robert is dead? Lord Stark is a prisoner? Robb is at war?_ _That little shit is king?_ With Joffrey ruling, things were bound to become much more difficult, for everyone. "So we are at war. The Riverlords are at our heel. The Starks right behind them. We have three Starks in King's Landing and Joffrey on the Throne." He shrugged. "Why not just give them Stark and his daughters and be done with it? We can end this now."

Uncle Kevan shook his head. "Tully, Piper, Vance. They are all out for blood."

"After we slaughtered their smallfolk and butchered their families?" Tybolt snorted. "Little wonder. No, they are being completely unreasonable. How do we pacify them?"

Lord Tywin was shaking his head before Tybolt finished. Small movements, almost jerky, side to side. His jaw was set and his expression cold. "Pacify them?" he asked quietly. "House Lannister does not _pacify_ its enemies, grandson. My father _pacified_ his people, and we ended up with a rebellion. No. We will not pacify the Tullys. We will not pacify the Starks. We will not pacify the Arryns. I will remind them all how Casterly Rock handles traitors." He stood and walked over to the window. "I will crush them all. I will make them bend to my will. That, my grandson, is how one rules. He ensures that he is the most feared of his foes. They must dread the very thought of him, and never consider rebelling against him. That is how we rule."

Tybolt stood and went over to his side. "And then how do we crush them?" he asked, looking up at his grandfather.

Lord Tywin turned to him. "I will smash the forces that march our way. Tyrion shall remain with me." The Imp raised his cup, but seemed impatient. "Once I am done here I will move south to Harrenhal and garrison my forces there. It shall make an effective stronghold for us to shore up our power and truly march to war. In the meantime I want you to return to Castamere, gather your forces. You hold the lands combined between the Reynes and Tarbecks, gather them all. Then I want you to blockade Stark's advance west and rejoin me at Harrenhal. We shall plan our next move there."

Tybolt recognised the dismissal, and bowed. "Grandfather." He emptied his cup back into the flagon. "Uncle Kevan. Tyrion." Kevan smiled, while the dwarf nodded almost imperceptibly, not looking at him. "Be well." A huff. Tybolt quashed his spurt of anger and marched out.

When he reached the horses Ser Talion was sharpening his sword. "My lord?" The soldiers rose to attention.

Tybolt threw himself atop Brightroar and rested a hand atop his blade. "Saddle up, all of you. We're going home."

* * *

 **And now the plot starts to kick up. The war is revving and battle plans are laid.**

 **Next chapter: Tybolt goes home. The Shade takes a toll. Euron makes a request.**


End file.
